


Lost a Heart in Vegas?

by sybilius, tartpants



Series: Black Beats and Low Leads [1]
Category: Death Note, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Artifact Based, B is a mess, But they make a good team, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Human Trafficking, L is a speedfreak, Las Vegas, M/M, Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Photographs, Post A's Death, Pre Death-Note, Pre LABB Murder Cases, Prostitution, Reunion, Roleplay to Fic, Sexual Coercion, Slow Burn, Stimulants, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide mention, Wammy's Era, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartpants/pseuds/tartpants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of A’s death, B and L reunite after five years, teaming up in Las Vegas to tackle a rumour of a case where tourists are waking up in buckets of ice with lost kidneys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: May 8-10 1998

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is the first of many tales from 'Black Beats and Low Leads', an artifact-based roleplay and collaborative storytelling project about the World's Greatest Detective and his allies. 
> 
> 'Black Beats and Low Leads' takes place in three arcs-- this story takes place in May 1998, immediately after A's death but before the LABB murder cases. Stories within the first arc (Young A, B, and L) and the third arc (Death Note Era/Post LABB) will be added as they are developed.
> 
> If you wish to keep up with 'Black Beats and Low Leads' in real time, the player blogs can be found on tumblr, and the roleplay organized in the "beats log". At the end of a tale, the beats and artifacts will be compiled into a story such as this one. 
> 
> L: lowlawliet.tumblr.com  
> B: noirberryjam.tumblr.com
> 
> In addition, a gorgeous graphic novel version of this story can be found under 'Related Works'. Do give it a read, it completely brings the story to life in stunning detail. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the story, and please leave a comment with your thoughts!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a stunning illustration done by the remarkable ave-arianna (Ari). Please check it out here:
> 
> http://ave-arianna.tumblr.com/post/152969436496/well-life-sucks-in-america-right-now-im-still
> 
> and leave her a like/reblog. It captures the story remarkably.

**May 7 1998**

 

** **

**_Law or Liar?_ [do not edit or repost] **

* * *

The magazine article arrives on a silver tray, under and to the side of his requested blackberry cake and Earl Grey tea. Were it pertinent, Quillsh would have wasted no time putting the article in his hands directly; as such, L is halfway through his tea before he does more than read the byline.

Ramses Radcliffe, a classic B calling card of alliteration and stressed syllables, good as any coy wink through a roomful of smoke a few oceans away. “Law or Liar?” L has encountered only a few reports on his own investigative work, fewer still in the mainstream media, and this is the longest and most detailed yet. He cannot say that it’s welcome, but coming from B he knows that the intentions are an unseemly mix of good and ill, the two blurring together until they scarcely matter – tart berries first clashing, then melting, into a mound of smooth cream.

Such distinctions have never concerned B. They do not often concern L, either, though necessity dictates that he does consider them from time to time.

Being able to immediately guess at the gist of B’s intentions will not, L knows, stop him from contemplating the whole array of possibilities they present. A full-time investigator like L is never not investigating, as B himself well knows. And B –

B, as it so happens, is always worth taking measure of.

First, though, another cup of tea. And more cake.

* * *

 

_ _

_B on A's Death, L on A's Death_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

****May 8 1998** **

** ** ** **

 

 _L Writes a Letter_ ****[do not edit or repost]****

The letter arrives at the luxurious hour of eleven in the morning, when B pretends he’s been asleep for hours instead of in and out of a revolving door reality of dream and hallucination. The room service sweetheart leaves the usual jar of strawberry jam atop an envelope addressed to r.r. No return address. B fumbles with the letter opener, tearing the page inside.

Well, well. A letter from Lawliet.

Looks like the article hasn’t made him too much of a celebrity to talk to B. Though the rest of his cases might.

He scans it voraciously, the terse words in L’s voice causing a clench in his gut. He’s almost offended by the suggestion that he’d forget a date as important as A’s. But perhaps that’s what Lawliet intended. Truth be told, he was looking for answers (with a capital A), though he knew quite well Lawliet wasn’t the type to be forthcoming. Nor was he the type to be forward. He would want a written invitation.

B chews the handle of the letter-opener for a moment (before realizing that the habit would have come from Lawliet himself). It’s been almost half a decade since the two of them had truly worked in tandem. Certainly this particular case in the heart of the City of Sin was interesting enough to merit the attentions of the great L. Beyond had been planning to gift-wrap the evidence for the grotesque drama directly to him, as a tease.

But there was the matter of L Lawliet _missing_ him. And as much as B is certain there’s a lie in it, he’s sorely tempted to open up that Pandora’s box and see if there’s anything waiting for him at the bottom.

Beyond never was one to shy from temptation.

Smiling for the first time in the week leading up to A’s death, B takes his lighter to the edge of the letter and watches L’s words crumble to ash.

* * *

  **May 9 1998**

_ _

_ _

_B replies with a Book_ [do not edit or repost]

The paperback smells of burnt tobacco and dust, the odor strong enough to make L sneeze into his arm, the book falling to the floor with a slap. He scoops it up and flips to the title page, recognizing B’s red ink, red scrawl, then quickly spots the salutation in the cipher. It makes him smile, he’s sure.

L eats Haribo twin cherries as he reads over B’s notes, having devoured almost nothing but the gummy sweets since receiving news of A’s death. The news did come as a shock. The news did leave him sad, he’s sure, though most of the feeling gets shut inside a dark room he rarely enters, because entering takes time and effort and he’d rather invest his time and effort in other things.

L tilts the book and studies how B’s red writing drifts carelessly over the printed text with no regard for boundaries or partitions.

The world has felt a little too tidy and simple lately, it’s true. This week he helped the FBI arrest nearly forty Chicago-area cops on corruption charges and assisted Interpol in shutting down an illegal ivory trafficking operation. Both achievements felt as profound as checking items off a grocery list. Neat and tidy, yes. Up until A exploded over everything –

The coldness of the thought catches L off guard. Maybe he’s not as sad as he thought. Maybe it’s a different feeling entirely.

His eyes graze over B’s words again. Liver. Kidney. In the last few years the internet has played host to a persistent urban legend about black market organ theft in Las Vegas. In the legend, a tourist visits Vegas, then wakes up in a tub of ice with a note nearby instructing them to call 9-1-1; said tourist phones for help and eventually realizes that they’re missing a kidney. Legend or not, it has just the sort of macabre flair to snare B’s attentions.

“I’ll wait for your call.”

L doesn’t have to call. L doesn’t have to do anything. That’s rather the best part about being L. But the last time he looked in the mirror he saw B between one breath and the next, a version of himself with more color, more edges and angles.

So he reaches for the phone. He reaches for more Haribo twin cherries.

* * *

 

**May 10 1998 [Evening]**

_A Fax to the Cortez_ [Do not edit or repost]

B is striding back from the casino with a bounce in his step. He may have taken a loss or two at the roulette wheel tonight, but in the process had made contact with the first person he’s confident is involved in the Body Snatcher’s case.

“Mr. R Radcliffe?” the tired-looking desk clerk catches him just before he reaches the stairs.

“Yes? Was there a call for me?” The day keeps getting better and better.

“A fax.”

B almost rolls his eyes when he takes the folded page from the clerk, who watches him intently. Curiosity, no doubt, as the missive is encoded. _Kristopher Karp. L, you haven’t changed a bit._

His hazel eyes trace out the salutation, HELLO B, no doubt, which in the Caesar cipher gives him the key _STRAWB_ – ah. The letters spin on precision wheels on his head to bring the message to light:

HELLO B. WILL CALL SATURDAY MIDNIGHT. WAIT AT THE PAYPHONE IN FRONT OF DEJA VU ON SAMMY DAVIS JR DRIVE

B checks his watch. 10pm. Well, at least Lawliet left him time for dinner. He folds the note twice and slips it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“You some kinda spy or something?” the clerk calls back before he reaches the door.

B shakes his head with an ear-to-ear grin, “Just someone with an asshole friend is all.”

* * *

**May 10 1998 [Midnight]**

B doubles back several times amidst the carnival of the Las Vegas evening. Best to be certain he isn’t being followed. He’s run into more than a few familiar faces, but luckily he hasn’t frequented this particular strip club. Yet.

 _Deja Vu_ is conspicuous with classical columns and neon lights. Exactly the kind of place he would spend time at to unwind, if a little commonplace for his unique tastes. But Lawliet would have known that. _Perhaps it’s a peace offering_ , B muses as he steps up to the line of phones.

He checks his watch again, then lights a cigarette to blend in. The smoke in the spring breeze, rapidly becoming invisible, reminds him of A. She always hated Vegas. He almost jumps when he hears the pay phone ring.

He checks his watch as he picks up, “You’re early.”

* * *

 

L is tugging on a length of Haribo’s sour spaghetti when B picks up, voice a touch gravelly, just as L remembers, but far from fatigued.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” L says into the receiver, chewing carefully, then swallowing. The blinds and curtains are drawn so that none of London’s morning light can penetrate the room, but even in the dark Las Vegas feels very far away. “It’s good to hear your voice. _Deja vu_ , in fact.”

B chuckles mirthlessly, “Is it now, _Mr. Karp_? I’d think you’d have called more if that were true. Unless you’ve recently been reminded of how temporary such voices really are.” B’s eyes rake over the blood-red numbers and names that float above cheery passers-by.

“Nice to forget, isn’t it?”

L closes his eyes and fights back what he’s quite certain is a smile. B is inhumanly resilient in some ways, surprisingly fragile in others – specifically those having to do with L.

L has never really understood why. He’s not worth the fuss, he’s sure.

“I missed you too, B,” he says, deciding to ignore the barb. “Even as my communication skills remain deficient. In fact,” he gnaws on the end of a sour spaghetti strand, “the letter that disclosed A’s death was unnecessarily blunt, I now realize.” He chews a bit more, then adds, “perhaps I was in a state of shock.”

* * *

 

 _Admitting he was wrong, and he missed me?_ There’s too much that’s unusual about that for B to stay on his high horse for long. A wouldn’t have wanted it, at the very least, “Honestly, I’ve always been surprised it was so young. Her job was dangerous, for sure, but she was the best of the best.”

B takes a short drag of his cigarette, “So are you going to tell me who killed her? And are we going to take them out?”

L pushes his sweets aside, touching his left thumb to his lips, phone receiver dangling from his other hand. B only knows dates, not causes of death; as ‘gifts’ (or _‘curses’_ ) go, its uses are limited.

“There’s no one to take out, B.” He tries to make the words gentle, in his own way. “She killed herself. Intra-oral gunshot with a .50 cailbre Desert Eagle. I looked into it and – yes, there’s no doubt.”

The cigarette slips from B’s fingers as the words pass through him like gunshot wounds, memories tearing up the inside of him. A red car passes in slow motion in the streets, and for a moment, B sees a spectacular wreck take its place, bodies thrown against windows. He blinks and a girl with dark, fathomless eyes blinks at him before the scene dissolves to the reality of the night.

“That’s what she– fuck. Jesus, A. I can’t.”

All that quiet strength and all that time A had been sitting at the bottom of that lightless pit B knows all too well. B curses himself several times for not knowing the signs. Not that she had left many. Just a bitter smile when he had met her last, “ _You seem sad, Beyond. It’s soon, isn’t it? Mine.”_

 _She didn’t deserve a death like that._ B has known, known for a long time that the days can’t be changed. But sometimes he wants to believe that the deaths themselves can be. _Who were you? What brought you to this, A?_ He blinks out of it.

“I didn’t know.” is all he can manage, “But maybe I should have.”

* * *

 

_“I didn’t know. But maybe I should have.”_

All the distance and miles don’t dampen the grief that L hears in B’s voice. But then L has always been better at identifying B’s emotions than his own. It’s reassuring, in a way. B feels things and then L doesn’t have to. Selfish, but reassuring.

“Could either of us have known? I have my doubts.” His voice is measured. Almost cold. Because it would be better if B blamed him, L, instead of blaming himself.  

“I saw her, L–” he starts, the emotions clotting in his throat. Forgetting himself. He takes a breath, knowing tonight will be a night to do exactly that, “Maybe this isn’t a conversation we should be having over the phone.” He taps a shaking hand on the dirty edge of the pay phone. As harsh as L is (has always been), he suddenly wants very desperately to have him by his side again.

“Have you thought about my proposal? Could use your eyes. Mine seem to be pretty useless these days.”

 _“Could use your eyes.”_ B is appealing to L’s sense of practicality and duty, even though B is probably asking for other reasons – neither practicality nor duty are his métier.

L glances around his dim and quiet suite of rooms, where nothing and no one intrudes without his say so. Being with B will be different, like leaving civilization for uncharted territory, and not just the external sort.

If B really wanted to ensure L’s company, he should phrase it as an alluring challenge, taunt L by insisting that he’ll go soft if he carries on as an armchair sleuth. Challenges are easy for L to accept. B knows that, and yet he’s asking outright, instead.

Damn him.

“Five years,” L breathes out. “Will you hit me when you see me?”

* * *

 

B has to take a sharp breath when he hears the question. Up until this point, the idea of seeing Lawliet had merely been another gamble, knotted up in the mess of A’s death. But now? If he plays his cards right, perhaps he could bring up the odds.

“There’s a possibility,” he slips back into his casual charm, knowing it will set Lawliet more at ease. He’s surprised that his moment of weakness seems to have genuinely affected Lawliet. Dead friends might do that to you, “Depends on how much you deserve it.”

There’s a bit of a silence on the other line. It may be a hesitation or it may be a consideration. B is certain if he acts now, he can get L where he wants him. But he hesitates: _should I want that?_

Of course, ‘should’ has never stopped B before.

“If you’re not up for it, I’m sure I can handle it. Already have a foot in the door with a middleman I met at the roulette wheel today. But we’ll see how deep this rabbit-hole goes. There’s a reason organ theft is an urban legend, and that’s because it’s damn hard to get into a viable market,” B chuckles lightly on the line, “But I’m sure your corruption cases are much more interesting, and easy to deal with from the comfort of London. Working alone suits you. Send my regards to old man Wammy, will ya?”

There it is. L is sorely tempted to call B’s bluff, if only as punishment for such a hopelessly obvious dig.

“Yes, it does suit me,” he says mildly. “There are few practical reasons to change my methods when success rates are so high.” Pushing a wad of Haribo into his mouth, he chews over the line for a minute, listening to B exhale smoke. “But I’m a little bored,” he finally relents, because it’s true.

 _“But I’m a little bored,”_ and isn’t that the closest thing he’ll get to true from L? He runs his fingers through his hair, suddenly angry. Old, and tired of the games L is constantly playing. He never was good at them, when it came to Lawliet.

Well, he asked, but he’s certainly not about to beg.

“Call me when you want to do something about that,” B stubs out his cigarette and hangs up before Lawliet has a chance to reply. There are too many emotions roiling inside him, and the edges of the neon-cast are starting to flicker purple. It’s going to be a colourful night. Might as well make the most of it, deal with the fallout in the morning.

There’s a reason he went to Vegas before A’s death, and it wasn’t just the draw of the case. It’s the best place to lose yourself to the night.

* * *

 

The line goes dead and L pulls the receiver away from his ear, staring at it like a piece of evidence.

That didn’t end well. He didn’t expect that it would.

L isn’t sure what B wants from him, he’s only quite sure that he can’t provide it, not because he doesn’t want to but because he’s not capable. All the things that make him an exceptionally good detective must be the same things that make him a less-than-satisfying friend.

_I told you that I missed you, though._

Why wasn’t that enough? L returns the phone receiver to its cradle and idly crumples the empty Haribo packaging into his pocket. He should leave B alone.

But that’s what he did with A, and now A is gone.

* * *

_A’s Death, Coda_ [do not edit or repost]


	2. Chapter 1:  May 10-12 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action, violence in this chapter. The detectives reunite!

**May 9-12 1998**

The sunlight feels all too-sharp when B wakes in a bed he only remembers in a flash of multicolored flesh. The boy sleeping beside him is pale, skinny like Lawliet, but has the fiery hair that reminded him of A, that he complimented him on the floor of _Deja Vu_ and managed to hold his attentions better than the strippers could. It’s fun for a night, being someone’s _anyone_.

 _Unhealthy coping methods, is that what the shrinks would have said?_ He washes his mouth out in the boy’s bathroom, spits in the sink, and leaves without a word.

Still, life goes on, its numbers flashing by in the crowds a constant reminder. B is sure he’s got at least a few good years in him, and can’t shake the feeling that it’s what A would have wanted.

 _But did I really know what she wanted?_ The more B thinks about and avoids thinking about A’s death, the more questions he has about her. But a lot of those questions end in there not being nearly enough air to breathe.

So it goes.

The next few days go about as well as can be expected. Better, even for the case. The middleman, Joey Ferraro, is chatty and easy to loosen his lips. He’s careful, though. But not so careful that B doesn’t get an address for a warehouse out of him on a two whiskey-bottle night. The rest of the evenings he wanders the streets in search of no one, seeing ghosts on every corner.

B curses himself every time his steps find his way back to _Deja Vu._

It’s on Monday that he feels the sensation of being watched intensify. It’s strong as that case, so many years ago when it was just his demons crawling out of the woodwork. He’s afraid; but that hasn’t stopped him. And it damn well won’t stop him from doing what needs to be done.

At two am on Tuesday, he’s dressed in black jeans, black jacket. The warehouse belongs to a drug ring he’s well acquainted with, but with a bit of digging, he might find a more promising lead. It only takes a moment with a penknife to unlock a window and slip in. He lets his eyes adjust to the light, positioning himself behind a large wooden crate. Before he has a chance to close the window, a voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Damnit. That better not be Marioni.”

 _Company._ B reaches, very slowly, for the Desert Eagle semiautomatic in his jacket. _Plan for negotiations, go in ready for a fight_. he thinks, just as the first few shots are fired.

* * *

 

It takes L a day or two to charter a jet.

He thinks of sending Watari, instead, then disregards it. If B found out (and he would), he would be insulted. _Sending old man Wammy to check up on me instead of doing it yourself?_ No, L will use his own eyes this time. He also packs up the few belongings from A’s flat that he thinks B might want: black leather motorcycle gloves; a Fallkniven A1 with a spear-tip, bulletproof blade; a vintage, rotating brass caddy of lipsticks, all in varying shades of coral and red.

After touchdown at McCarran, L catches a cab downtown and gets a room at the El Cortez under “Kristofer Karp.” The woman behind the desk spends a long time eyeing the Nevada State license that claims he’s twenty-two, but L hasn’t slept in over forty-eight hours, and it seems exhaustion has aged him enough to pass muster.

He gets room 414, directly under B’s. Heavy footsteps come and go at irregular intervals, and while crouched under the windows listening, L finds himself wondering how tall B is, and if he’s grown stocky or stayed lean and rangy. At fourteen they’d been the same height, though L was a bit thinner. More breakable.

_It’s alright, Kid. You won’t get hurt, I promise._

The memory pushes through from somewhere, sharper than the desert rays that comes through the window, and it confuses L for a moment. Leaves him dizzy and dazzled. Then he places where it comes from, bats it away.

He does owe B a debt from back then.

On Monday he hears B’s hotel door slam shut and this time he’s ready, dressed like an ordinary street hoodlum, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt large enough to camouflage his holstered knife and Beretta 92. L takes the fire stairs down to the lobby at a tear, rushing to beat B out the exit, then pretends to browse the porno mags at the nearby newsstand.

From behind his sunglasses he sees B push through the hotel doors, loose-limbed and lanky. His dark hair burns brownish in the light, and his face, despite looking older, is more soft and innocent than L expects. But then B always had a curious innocence to him, as much as it clashed with everything else. That’s what made B interesting.

Yes, it has to be B, and while L had calmly prepared himself for this moment there’s a heat in his face that he suspects isn’t entirely related to the searing afternoon sun.

L tracks B for the rest of the day, at least half-certain that his presence hasn’t gone entirely unnoticed. B was trained at Wammy’s, too. Come night (or early morning, rather), B’s changed into all black and walks West of downtown, past the Arts District and into a wasteland of industrial buildings and warehouses.

Wherever B’s headed, it’s nowhere good, and that suits L just fine. Depending on what happens next, it might even save him from having to figure out how to come out of the shadows and say hello.

From behind a dumpster L watches as B wriggles, eel-like, through a cracked window, knowing he can’t follow without giving himself away. He reaches into his sweatshirt and clicks the Beretta’s safety up, eyes glued to the window, still raised by B’s hand.

That’s when gunfire cracks the night air and flashes come from inside the warehouse. B’s shadow disappears from the window, diving into darkness, and there’s no thought or decision from L, just muscle memory, _memory_ memory.

He follows.

 _To shoot the guard, or not shoot the guard? Why is that always the question?_ Considering the hot-head is shooting back, it’s not like B has much of a choice in the matter. Which makes him all the more certain there’s something to hide here.

His first round only catches the shoulder of the guard, but gives him a good look at his attacker. He’s young, but there’s two much bigger coming up behind him.

The return fire is close. These kids aren’t amateurs, that’s for damn sure. He scans his surroundings, wondering if it’s worth a climb up the crate to get the high ground.

Before he makes his move there’s gunfire that comes from _behind him_. Straight into the hand of the second guard, then one at the ribcage. At first he wants to believe it’s A, but the aim is a little sloppy for that. He ducks behind the slats to catch the barely-lit face of a man at the window.

 _Lawliet,_ his mind supplies, though all his half-dreamed versions of a Lawliet five years older could not have prepared him for the gaunt, sharp-eyed and fascinating figure shooting beside him.

He wonders if it’s a hallucination for only a moment before Lawliet’s shot catches the second man in the shoulder, and Lawliet catches his eye for a heartbeat of a moment, five _missed_ years collapsing into nothingness. He grins back and they advance together, in perfect rhythm.

* * *

The two younger and less injured of the guards stumble for the warehouse exit, favoring their wounds, while the one B shot in the kneecap drags himself across concrete, red-faced and reaching for his weapon.

L crouches down to reload so B gets to the injured man first, kicking his weapon away and directing his heavy combat boot into the man’s face. L watches the scene almost dazedly, the low, yellowy warehouse lights bleeding over the man’s screams and transforming the scene into something more like a dream. Then the screams are inter-cut with B’s gleeful laughter and L shoots to his feet, scrambling to B’s side.

“If you want him to talk you’ve got to leave him some teeth,” he says, panting a little, pulse pounding between his ears.

B whirls around at the sound of his voice, giddiness still shining in his eyes. The man next to B’s feet is bleeding from his nose and mouth, a horrible, gargling cry leaking from the back of his throat, but B just steps over him like he’s nothing, smile as wide and sharp as a jackal’s.

L smiles back.

“Hullo, B.”

* * *

“My god, that was cathartic. Didn’t expect to see you here, you look _good_ , how was your flight and all that shit– wait, can we do small talk after I get what I want from this one?” B jerks his thumb backwards to the mess of a human being behind them, “But you remember how it is, right?”

He’s vibrating with energy when he steps back to tilt the bloodied man’s chin upwards. The chase, the fight always gives him the high that drugs never could. That and the fascinating terror in the man’s eyes, “You know who I am, small fry? Let me give you a hint. A little _birdie_ told me you were in the market for a kidney or two.”

The man’s eyes widen and his lips go white. _Bingo_. B slips the knife out from under his jacket, places it next to the man’s eye. Good to watch the terror go up a few notches, “If you value those eyes of yours I suggest you start talking about Kerrie White. My employer is very interested.”

“I don’t know anything about Kerrie White, I swear! She wasn’t one of ours!” In his desperation to say something true, the man seems to have realized that the last phrase wasn’t meant to slip out. B smiles wider.

“Who are _yours_?”

“Oh god, please–”

“Take your time,” B delivers a cracking slap across his already damaged jaw, “Or don’t, I don’t have all night.”

“Look, I don’t – I’ve just got mine, okay? Mexican chick, I don’t know her name, I swear– they get brought in and we just decide where they’ll be useful.”

“Uh-huh. Who decides?” the man hesitates, and B nicks the corner of his eye, “ _Who.”_

 _“_ They say it’s Deon Fredericks. But I swear I don’t know–” B searches the man’s face with his eyes for any sign of a lie, then pulls back. It’s beautifully familiar, turning back over his shoulder to see Lawliet observing behind him, “I’m honestly on the fence as to whether or not to kill this one. Wasn’t in the job description. But do you think he’s got anything else in him? Clock’s ticking.”

* * *

 

_“Mexican chick.”_

The words echo in L’s brain even as he hears B’s question loud and clear. If it were just a drug or weapons smuggling ring, that would be one thing, but when the business is other humans then everyone involved is guilty, from the bloke who calls the shots to the guy who holds the door.

L’s eyes flick to B’s hands, blood already ground into his knuckles. Despite what he says about being on the fence, B is eager and all too ready.

 _“She had a name,”_ a small voice in his mind insists, and L aims the beretta and shoots the bleeding man between his eyes, his body thudding back against the concrete.

He lets out a breath and drops his arms, eyes firmly meeting B’s. “His date was up, wasn’t it? If it wasn’t us then it would be his people, but not before they got a description of us, first.”

Duty and practicality, that’s all it is.

* * *

B stares for a moment at the smoking wreckage in L’s wake, the floating red numbers blinking out.

“Well, that was unexpected. A little too good to be back in the field, is it? Not that you were wrong. Not that you ever are,” B turns back to L but doesn’t smile. His pale face is impassive, but there’s a quiet tension in the tendons of his neck. Lawliet’s tells are subtle, for certain, but they are _exactly the same_ as five years ago.

_As if you never really dealt with it. I should have known._

If he’d have known it would have been _this_ instead of the chopping up of a few tourists for giggles, he wouldn’t have even considered bringing Lawliet on.

But he’s here. B can feel the stirrings of old desires from younger days. Guilt and a protective instinct so strong it nearly chokes him. And something that squeezes his chest tighter than a noose. Those didn’t get him anywhere then, and they certainly won’t get him anywhere now.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t get creative, “So I guess you’ll be taking me up on that partnership, then?” He does smile then, the charming one with just enough teeth, “At least for this case.”

* * *

 

**May 12 1998**

_The_ _Peppermill_ [Do not edit or repost]

They leave the body in a pool of blood, grabbing a cab a few blocks away from the warehouse, the car speeding off just as sirens approach in the distance.

Neither of them says much during the ride, too mindful of the driver’s presence, but the silence is mostly comfortable, if drawn tight with some unasked and unanswered questions. B seems to give off more body heat than a regular human; it makes L sleepy. He shakes himself back to alertness and pulls a wad of tissues from the pocket of his hoodie.

“Your hands,” he murmurs, shoving the tissues at B, who silently wipes his knuckles clean.

Then end up at a place called the Peppermill Lounge, a 24-hour bar and diner whose drunk patrons have mostly cleared out now that it’s past four am. The entire place is covered in velvet and neon and looks like the love child of Elvis and a 1970s discotheque. B gives the hostess a grin and asks for a table away from the rabble. They end up seated across from each other under a garish, fake cherry tree, the neon lights casting a purplish glow over B’s features.

“I’m tired,” L confesses. “Haven’t slept since I got here. My hotel room’s the one under yours, by the way –” his eyes catch on the sugar canister. It’s the kind that you pour sugar directly out of, and instead of ordinary white crystals it’s filled with rainbow ones. “Oh,” he says, the words ending on a note of delight as he reaches for a spoon.

* * *

 

The cab ride is almost surreal, but also the most real that B has felt in years. Lawliet seems at once wisp-like and wiry, fragile and fathomless. It’s similar to how he remembers, but darker. He’s is hunched up the way B remembers him on those long stakeouts when they would take turns watching.

It brings a smile to his lips as he presses the blood off his knuckles, and tells the driver to take them to the Peppermill. It’s a place that they’ll be comfortable at, knowing Lawliet.

Seems he’s right so far.

“You know, I was convinced it was _you_ that was tailing me but I thought it was just…me again,” B dips his own spoon into the sugar, smiling as L gives him a half-dirty look, “Does it go without saying that I’ve missed you too?” It’s comfortable, for a moment, but B knows it’s about time they got down to business.

“I’m honestly not sure where to start with us– small talk being ‘how is it being the World’s Greatest Detective’, or perhaps, ‘when did you last see our best Ace in the hole before she blew her brains out’, or even ‘what’s our next move’, you can take your pick.”

Just as L’s about to begin, a harried looking waitress arrives at their table with a forced smile, “Can I take your order?”

“I’ll have a burger, fries on the side, and would you mind bringing one of those racks with the breakfast packets of jam? Thanks love.”

* * *

 

The rainbow sugar is thick and crunchy between L’s teeth, waking him up, but not as much as some strong coffee will.

“A pot of coffee, thank you,” he says to the waitress in his most posh and polite accent. “And the ‘fruit fantasia’ waffles.”

She looks them both over like she can’t make heads of tails of them, skinny and strung-out looking, but civil as well-bred school boys. “Right away,” she says, finally smiling, and hustles off.

L turns back to B, whose leapt five pages ahead in the conversation, as he’s wont to do. “There’s not much to say about being the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ that hasn’t already been covered by _Ramses Radcliffe_.” He gives B a knowing look, licks more sugar from the end of his spoon, and moves on. No reason to withhold this blow.

“A – she got in touch with me back in March. Wanted to get tea, but I was in Rome leading Operation Gamma from behind the scenes. I told her I’d track her down when I was back in London…”

He pauses as the waitress sets down a pot of coffee and a jam-caddy. B reaches for a packet of strawberry, ripping back the cover and squeezing the contents into his mouth. L pours coffee and gives it a generous dose of sugar.

“…Got overloaded in cases and never followed up.” He ducks his head, a tight, bitter smile stretching his lips. “I figured if it was important, she’d come calling.” The coffee is hot enough to sear his throat, but he takes a long drink anyway. “She never did.”

* * *

 

The brittle smile Lawliet gives him makes B want to reach for his hand, tense and white on the tabletop. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. Lawliet always made a habit of dealing with such things with the minimal possible effort. Save the effort for the work, never anything else.

_I hope it doesn’t break you this time._

B hesitates before trading his side of the story, “I met her, it would have been a week ago. I knew it was for the last time, anyways. We got together one night, caught her before she left for Moscow. She always liked it there, anyways. She… _she_ knew that it would be the last time. She asked me. I didn’t say, but I guess that’s all it took. I thought she was just being perceptive. She was good at that sometimes. But she _knew_ because it was her. It was her all along. God Lawliet, she’s only a year older than us.”

He takes a shuddering breath, thinking of his friend, drowned in a despair he knows all too well, “She didn’t deserve that. I should have been listening harder. I know she had to die that day, but _not like that.”_

* * *

 

While Beyond speaks L rubs his thumb against his lower lip, listening to the cracks strain in B’s voice. It makes L tense at first, then settles over him with a veil of familiarity. If it were five years ago he would have found it easy and natural to put a comforting hand on B’s shoulder, but he finds it difficult to think of such soothing, physical gestures as anything but hollow manipulation, now.

“You can’t listen to what isn’t being said.” L’s voice is calm and glacial and he sort of hates it. He sounds like a fortune cookie, an armchair therapist instead of an armchair sleuth. He’s bad at this.

He thinks of A, untouchable A. And yet she was warm when she needed to be. Business-like when the situation demanded it. “She was a chameleon who adapted as needed,” he says, continuing his thoughts aloud. “It’s what made her so good at her job. But maybe she didn’t know what her true colors were.” He gnaws on the edge of his thumb, glances up at B, whose expression is so harrowed that it’s strangely arresting. L has a difficult time looking away.

* * *

 

 _“You can’t listen to what isn’t being said.”_ B stares back at L, thinking incredulously, _Isn’t that what I’m constantly doing with you?_ L’s eyes speak volumes though, controlled measures of care directed at B through filters and screens.When the marks under them are blackest, they’re the easiest to read.

B takes a deep breath, and lets Lawliet’s presence, and even his distance, ground him. The numbers above his head are still reassuringly far away. And the sincerity– well that’s a gift Lawliet doesn’t allow him often.

He breaks the gaze a beat too late, realizing his heartbeat has picked up in turn, just the way it used to. _Damnit._

B scoops out the last of the third packet of jam with his index finger and reaches for his own coffee, “Well here’s to A. One of the best I’ve ever known. At everything she did. Hopefully one day we’ll be able to piece together who she was.”

B catches L’s gaze again, the raw flicker of emotion buried under layers of curiosity and careful calculation. _Some day, you’re going to set yourself on fire with that, Lawliet. Someday, I’ll make you_. The thought surprises even him.

The plates of food arrive a moment later. B is hungrier than he expected (an interrogation will do that to you), although his stomach is still in knots. He could do with some smaller talk, or at least some normal talk. He attempts a smile at L.

“So, first impressions of the case, oh Great Detective?”

* * *

 

L is almost caught off-guard by the change in subject. For a moment there it seemed like Beyond was going to say more – about the past, about A. Something other than just a wistful toast. But then it’s probably better that B left it there. For the both of them.

And then his ‘fruit fantasia’ waffle is sat down before him, a truly resplendent-looking concoction, and he realizes just how hungry he is. He pinches his fork between his fingers and spears up melon and berries, chewing with relish, remembering his manners and swallowing his mouthful before speaking.

“I’ve followed a few organ trafficking cases in other parts of the world. They’re difficult to crack because of all the different parties involved. It’s a costly operation, involving expensive medical equipment and skillful surgeons, and the victims are almost always people no one cares about.” His smile is cold. “The voiceless of society.”

L cuts off another piece of waffle and washes it down with more coffee, feeling more alert than he has in hours. “That’s why I dismissed the urban legend here in Vegas. Tourists are not good illegal organ donor victims.” He waves his fork for emphasis. “Tourists have money and identities. But political prisoners in China don’t – their government’s been accused of using religious cult members as live organ donors. In other parts of the world, organized crime is usually involved.”

He pushes his plate aside, satiated for the moment, and returns his attention back to Beyond. “What about that name, Deon Fredericks. Do you know it?”

* * *

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Here, let me give you a quick debrief about how things go here,” B unfolds a paper napkin and pulls a pen out of his jacket, “There are seven syndicates in Vegas, but really only three, three-and-a-half we have to be worried about.”

Summoning a mental layout of the north side comes easily to him, scribbling in haphazard patterns to get a general feel for the shape of crime’s dialogue across the city. He marks an X, “There’s where we were last night. Would be Chambers territory– white collar shit, corporate counterfeiting, and cocaine, occasionally. They’re rivals with the Marionis, especially on the drug front. The Marionis have better guns, but Chambers can hold more territory. In general cause they’re smarter about it.”

“Over here’s where I know a guy from. And where our man Deon is from. He’s a mediator, really. You got the Crios and the Leth – they used to be rivals but got too tight, so you can almost consider them one syndicate. ‘Cept when there’s the occasional skirmish over who owns the addicts. Fuckers. Anyways, Deon isn’t high up but he known. And if Chambers is working with either of them– or both of them – I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one at the negotiation table.”

_B's Map_  [do not edit or repost]

B sits back a moment, slides the napkin over to Lawliet and takes another handful of fries, “So here’s the thing. I was planning to set that little nip in the warehouse as a hit– I’ve got a bit of a reputation, round these parts especially, and a particular MO for assassination. A bullet to the head doesn’t fit. So they might think the Marioni hired me for a hit. Or they might not. Either way, it’ll take them off-balance, which is dangerous for us, but we might be able to use that as an advantage. I think we should move into a hotel on the north side.”

* * *

L listens calmly to B’s rapid-fire explanation, watches as nicotine-stained fingers sketch out a rough map, then commits both to memory.

Picking up the grease-and-ink-spotted napkin, L raises an eyebrow in B’s direction, the gesture barely perceptible except to those who have known him for years. “Are you upset that I usurped your target? Or is it more that my methods brought your fun to an abrupt end?” He spreads the napkin neatly on the table.

“In any case, this is who I suggest focusing the investigating on.” He points at the _Chambers_ X. “White collar and clever, both of which are a must for anyone wrapped up in illegal organ trafficking.” He sprinkles rainbow sugar on the remains of his waffle. “And agreed about changing hotels, if only so I can register under a name other than ‘Kristofer Karp.’”

He takes a last, lingering swallow of coffee, eager to knock a few things off his list before the buzz subsides. “After we switch hotels I should still have enough energy to check in with Watari.” His eyes flick to B’s. “And unpack. I brought some of A’s things for you.”

* * *

 

 _“Are you upset that I usurped your target? Or is it more that my methods brought your fun to an abrupt end?”_ B shrugs and waves his hands in an elaborate display of uncertainty. The way Lawliet tolerates, _indulges_ violence never ceases to amuse him.

The smile flickers off of his face as the weight of A’s death settles back on his shoulders. The echo of her bells sounds much less airy now, but just as free. He motions for the check, and doesn’t bat an eye when Lawliet snatches it and slips in a bill large enough to be a generous tip.

“We ought to get ourselves a proper getaway car,” B murmurs to L after they’ve packed up their various rooms and are waiting for a second cab, “And maybe a bike.”

L gives a noncommittal nod, and B smirks and decides not to bring up the London Harley disaster.

It’s just as well, since that was a case A cinched for them.

It’s hitting sunrise over the desert skyline when they finally roll into _The Golden Nugget_. B strides up to the counter, giving the clerk an easygoing grin, “I’ll need a room,” he glances back to Lawliet, suddenly unsure of where five years leaves them, “In fact, we might need two.”

_The Golden Nugget_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

On the inside, the Golden Nugget doesn’t look too dissimilar from the El Cortez: low, smoke-laced lighting and bright, chirping slot machines; the carpet is especially riotous, meant to disguise muddy boot prints and vomit stains. One can never tell what time it is in a Vegas casino. It’s always dark, there’s always booze, and there’s always people bellied up to the poker tables.

 _A clever business move_ , L thinks, watching Beyond amble up to the hotel clerk.

“I’ll need a room,” he announces, then shoots an odd look in L’s direction. “In fact, we might need two.”

L furrows his brow. _And have me knocking down your door every time we need to discuss the case?_ He gives a subtle shake of his head and lifts a single finger. _One_.

It isn’t until they’re in the elevator that it occurs to him that B might not be looking out for L’s privacy, but for his own.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shifting his suitcase as they step out onto the fifteenth floor. “Did you want separate rooms?”

* * *

 

B shrugs, “Course not, I thought you might.” he throws the tattered duffel bag that contains most of his worldly possessions onto the far bed, “Besides, they gave us two beds. My talent at sleep is about the same as where you left it, so I’d hate to keep you up. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

He says it lightly, but Lawliet’s hunch is wavering at a sway. _He always did push himself too far_ . Visions of Lawliet’s bony white shoulders, corpselike and thrashing back into a pulse assault him for a moment in a flash of blue. _Too far. Too far back._ Lawliet seems to notice his gaze lingering too long, and B turns away quickly.

“Look, I think I’ll shower off and then try to rest, alright? We can deal with this shit in the morning. Call the old man and then get some sleep, yeah?”

* * *

 

 _Try to rest?_ Beyond doesn’t look tired to L – though he is a little bit more subdued than before. For B, anyway.

L slips his bare feet out of his sneakers and lays his suitcase on the unclaimed bed, unlatching it as the bathroom door quietly shuts behind B. Water roars to life as L quickly finds a pair of track pants and a tee-shirt, loose as he can manage. He loathes tight clothes; shoes and socks even more so. It’s a relief to change into the fresh garments and toss the old ones into a drawer.

The call to Watari is a short and painless briefing/debriefing. The World’s Greatest Detective is still officially in operation, but taking no new cases until this adventure with Beyond is either over or has… turned sour.

L glances at the bathroom door as he ends the phone call. B’s still splashing about in there.  

Things seem far from sour so far. Or further from sour than L expected, anyway. But it’s early days, yet.

In the depths of his suitcase L finds the smaller nylon bag he filled with A’s belongings, and after arranging the knife and lipstick caddy on the TV stand, he finally pulls out the leather gloves. They’re small and dainty, he realizes, too big for B’s hands nowadays.

L is still staring at them like a vexing puzzle when the bathroom door creaks open behind him.

 

* * *

 

“Those hers?” B has a towel cinched around his waist, hair still drenched, “Oh. Yeah I remember those. Lot of blood on those. But they were easy to clean, she said.”

L takes the gloves gingerly in his hands, his touch as bare and clinical as ever. The gloves look natural, black contrasting with the white of his skin. B cracks a bitter half-smile, “She would have said they almost suit you,” his eyes catch the glowing brass of the lipstick caddy, “Oh Jesus, I remember when she got this. Fourteen years old and I could dress her up to look like she was twenty. She was old for her time though. Most of time.”

He takes the rusty crimson that he’d told her to use to evoke nostalgia and slides it over his lips. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and a much younger, sharp-eyed girl glares back at him, “ _Do I look pretty?”_ She’d asked so many years ago. The memory slips out of his lips before he has time to filter it.

* * *

The hotel room’s lighting is low and paltry, the heavy curtains blocking out the rising sun, and L stifles a yawn against the back of his hand before sinking onto the mattress, placing A’s gloves on the nightstand.

“Do I look pretty?” B asks in a soft, lilting voice that isn’t quite his own, causing L to blink blearily at B’s reflection in the mirror. L can’t remember a time when B wasn’t interested in dressing up and disguises, slipping into costume as easily as a second skin. He’d taught A and L to do the same – well, he’d tried to teach L. It’s not that L’s _bad_ at disguises, it’s that he excels at only a select few.

He’s best at playing whatever will make others grossly underestimate him.

Even in the poor lighting L can see the pleasant contrast between Beyond’s plush red lips and the thick, dark stubble he still hasn’t shorn off.  

_Do I look pretty?_

“Yeah,” L says, settling his head on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut despite his best efforts. “You do.”

* * *

“ _Yeah. You do.”_ B practically drops the lipstick at Lawliet’s words, gentled with tiredness. He turns his face away as his pulse picks up without his permission. He takes a shuddering breath and focuses on his reflection in the mirror. Red lips to match red eyes and the slightest pink on his high cheekbones.

Thank goodness Lawliet has fallen asleep.

Sleep sands out the detective’s sharp-edges. He’s as soft as B remembers him being, that way, the only hint of his alertness in the way the tendons gather at his throat.

For a moment, B considers sketching the muscle-lines of Lawliet’s perfect neck, but decides it would be best not to encourage this. It’s never led anywhere good before, and for the moment their partnership is _grounding_.

_Exactly like it was before._

The thought certainly doesn’t help his sleeping habits. It takes what might be two hours of tossing in the scratchy sheets before he manages to slip into something resembling rest.

He dreams in technicolor about Moscow, the last case with A. Where the streets are in shadow of the hulking Communist buildings and the crumbling palaces, their gilt long since replaced with yellow paint. Monsters, grotesque with sharp blue eyes pass by on the streets, but they’re old friends at this point. There’s a hand in his, A is next to him, but the hand is not hers. It’s Lawliet’s. He drops it, bloodied and disembodied, and A laughs her bell-laugh and waves at him with a matching, disembodied hand. In the reflection of the building B sees himself, but he’s not himself.

He’s L.

B tumbles awake drenched in sweat. It’s 11:00, at least. He considers waking Lawliet, but he’s still seeing monsters at the window, melted glass, and he’s not ready to face murderous topics just yet. And he’s certainly not ready to be put under Lawliet’s microscope

With an air of resignation, B takes out his notebook and begins to draw.

_You Never Did Take to Shoes_ [do not edit or repost]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 2: May 12 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why they spend so much time on a given day; well. They go all night :)

**May 12 1998**

L sleeps dreamless, a plunge into the ether and then back out again, and when his eyes next open the alarm clock on the nightstand reads that it’s just past one in the afternoon. Seven hours sleep, then, not the twenty or so that he would prefer after four days of wakefulness.

Rolling onto his side, he wonders how long he’ll be able to keep up with B’s incomprehensible stores of energy. Probably not long – not without help that’s stronger than coffee. The headache already pounding behind his brow, clamoring for caffeine and sugar, is proof enough of that.

“B?” L says, and lifts his head off the pillow to take in Beyond, sat at the room’s narrow desk. He’s shirtless, the ropey muscles in his bare back jumping with the force of a pen, with writing scrawled across hotel stationery. When L repeats B’s name again the writing stops.

“Morning.” L’s voice is still blurry around the edges. “Or afternoon, rather.” He yawns and stretches, tugging the blankets partially aside. “You don’t have any jam in here, do you?”

* * *

“Mm,” B tears away from his ‘grocery list’ to reach into his jacket for a handful of diner jam packets, tosses two of them at Lawliet. His reflexes are still pretty compromised, and the jam packets scatter over the floor. B is at the floor in an instant, skittering up to grab both and place them in Lawliet’s hand. The marks under Lawliet’s eyes are only a little paler.

“We need to get you some coffee, don’t we?” he smiles, knowing full well Lawliet will read it as a challenge. _And how_ does _the World’s Greatest Detective function these days?_ B is curious to find out.

Though the strain at Lawliet’s temple is a little worrying.

B bites at the torn skin at his knuckles, “Was thinking about what you said last night, and you’re probably right– we’re looking at something on a much bigger scale. Especially given what that shit-head said last night about everyone having a use. If we’re lucky, some of the people we’re looking for might even be hiding in plain sight.”

* * *

 

_Morning Jam_ [do not edit or repost]

L peels open one of the jam packets and idly drags his finger through the sweet stuff, scooping a small glob of it to his mouth.

“Yes, coffee please. Something with chocolate and whipped cream.” And some Adderall. For now.

He scoots to the edge of the bed and puts his bare feet on floor, wiggling his toes until they pop, then pulls his feet back up, knees pressed to his chest.

“Trafficking victims are dependent on whoever they call master. Usually, their will has been broken by a process called _seasoning;_ that way, they walk among the rest of the population with no one the wiser.” He delivers the words with no special enunciation, but avoids B’s eyes for a moment. “Does anyone involved with Chambers syndicate own a business or commercial retail space? Nail salons, restaurants, housecleaning services, massage parlors, escort services…that sort of thing.”

L scoops up some more jam and looks back to B, whose gnawing at his already raw-bitten knuckles. That old habit. Like there’s some hunger inside B that can’t and won’t ever be satiated.

He gently tugs at B’s wrist. “You’ll get an infection.”

* * *

The world almost _tilts_ and spins back onto an axis B hadn’t remembered the feeling of. _You’re really a piece of fucking work, aren’t you?_ B thinks, and he almost wants to spit it out, but settles for running his tongue obscenely over his knuckles instead, “I think I’ll be fine, sweetheart.”

He pulls himself out of Lawliet’s orbit, back into the afternoon glow of the case. “Nail salon seems a good place to start,” He eyes Lawliet’s feet, “How’d you feel about a pedi? Some of the places– they won’t realize we’ve got listening ears, especially if we put up the right front.”

He unzips Lawliet’s suitcase with no sense of propriety, eyeing the repetitive jeans and white t-shirts, the baggy clothes, “Well, I don’t have much to work with here– but let’s see if we can affect a persona.”

* * *

L had his first pedicure thanks to A, who insisted that he’d find the whole experience relaxing, and even claimed that they were linked to improved neurological cognition levels. He knew that the latter was a lie meant to coax him into joining her, but even so, he’d humored her and found the experience tolerable enough. Even marginally pleasant. In the last year or two he’s adopted a routine of getting a pedicure and manicure every few months, along with bi-weekly massage treatments and quarterly dental cleanings (a must, considering his diet). None of this is about pampering or vanity; L is simply aware that he doesn’t take very good care of himself, otherwise.

So when B mentions getting ‘pedis.’ L glances down at his bare feet and judges them more or less in need of maintenance.

“A pedi suits me. What kind of persona do you have in mind, though?” L gingerly sits the now-empty packet of jam on the nightstand and creaks out of bed, padding over to where B stands, rifling through L’s suitcase. He offer’s a tiny, wry smile. “Something in my usual type, I hope. My range has only marginally expanded since you saw me last.”

* * *

B digs through his own bag and throws a tattered old jean-jacket at Lawliet, “Grunge-cool, we can do. It’ll suit you well, though we’ll have to trade shoes. Can I tear these jeans?” he doesn’t wait for Lawliet’s permission when he sees the identical pair underneath them, just slips out his butterfly knife and creates a bit of an aesthetic. He throws those at Lawliet as well,  “There’s a few foreign ones a few blocks over that would be a good place to start; Chinese and Vietnamese mainly. I’ll go for the tourist look, it’ll put em at ease. At a lot of them are comfortable talking a little in the native tongue if they don’t think anyone is listening.”

He settles a flower-patterned Rayon shirt over his frame that he had picked out of a dumpster the other week, washed in a hotel sink. With the rounded sunglasses he looks just the right mix of fashionably ridiculous, his lips still slightly pinked from A’s lipstick. Lawliet, on the other side of him in the mirror, looks unfairly stylish in the dirty old jacket. _Well, it does fit his range, at least._ B grins at him, “Yeah, we look good.”

* * *

 _Maybe_ you _do_ , L thinks, because the denim jacket really isn’t baggy enough for his liking, and he can only imagine how oppressive it will feel out in the harsh desert sun. But he doesn’t complain, trusting B to know best when it comes to matters of disguise. B himself looks foppish and colorful, like a club kid from a music video.

They stop at one of the hotel’s cafes for a coffee on the way out, and L orders something frothy and sweet, requesting it on ice in anticipation of the heat. He swallows down 60 mg of Adderall XR with his first sip, and the drink’s already gone by the time they’ve walked two blocks and caught a Westbound bus. Ten minutes later and they’re stepping off at a well-kept but thoroughly out-dated strip mall. One of the storefronts is occupied by a business called _Vegas Nails,_ the window plastered with posters of show-girl quality nail art.

“ _Done like diamonds_?” L reads the slogan with some doubt. “I’m not quite sure what that means.”

_Vegas Nails_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

 

B eyes the pill that L swallows as they leave the cafe, but swallows his question with his own sugared coffee. Whether it’s a pill for a headache or a habit, he’s not sure where they stand enough to pry.

But he is gnawingly _curious._ He can be patient. _For now._

 _“I’m not quite sure what that means.”_ Lawliet frowns at the slogan.

“Not sure, but I’m going for the glitter, darling, “ he takes Lawliet by the hand, slipping into the character like a second skin. The door jingles and he giggles to match it’s airiness. There’s a bored-looking white woman at the counter, who wrinkles her nose at the two of them before smoothing her disgust over into something refined. B lets go of Lawliet’s hand with an appropriate blush. _That already speaks volumes about the kind of person we’re dealing with._

“Any chance we could get an appointment for two pedicures?” B puts on his best nervous smile, and the woman forces the corners of her mouth upwards in response.

“Of course. I think we’ve got a few girls who can fit you in.” she ushers them into the back with movements like a snake.

The salon is clean and bright in its upkeep, but a little too cramped to hold appeal for the rich. Four Vietnamese woman, _girls_ , B thinks, _they barely look eighteen,_ hold tight smiles at their stations when the hostess walks in.

“Two pedicures,” she says with distaste.

B smiles with a measure of uncertainty as two of the girls clamour forward to rush them into aqua-pleather seats. The water is warm and soothing, and B almost sees A smiling next to him, but instead Lawliet flashes back into reality. It’s a sad smile, though. His manicurist has just started massaging his toes, and he almost flinches at the touch. One of the older women bring over a pumice block and speaks rapidly to her friend.

“ _Be careful. Some of the men don’t come in here for the nails, especially when they’re getting feet done. Watch his hands.”_ B strains to catch most of it. His Vietnamese is a little rusty at best, but he catches the gist.

“ _I’m not sure he’s here for us,”_ his manicurist whispers, Lawliet’s, the younger one titters beside them.

After a moment he leans over to Lawliet, letting the appropriate amount of tenderness drip in his voice. It’s not a tough act, as much as he’d like it to be, “You doing alright there?”

* * *

 

_Inside the Salon_ [do not edit or repost]

L listens to the girls while pretending not to, flipping through an old copy of a fashion magazine. When the girl working below him bends over to trim his cuticles, her thick, straight hair falls away from the side of her neck, revealing a tiny flower tattoo an inch or so below her ear.

“You doing alright there?” B asks, with a softness to his tone that makes L feel the first tendrils of an emotion that he ends up ignoring before he can name it.

“Yeah,” he says, his pitch pointed and higher than usual – his attempt at being carefree and casual. “Just look at this.” He leans toward Beyond’s chair as if to show him something in the magazine, and taps at a glossy picture of a model in the exact same spot where the manicurist’s tattoo is. B catches on at once, pivoting just enough to get a good look at his own manicurist, then gives L a subtle nod.

“ _There she goes,_ ” B’s girl says as the salon hostess – the manager, L would bet – walks by and disappears into a back room. “ _She must not know these two._ ”

 _“No, she doesn’t,”_ L says in Vietnamese, and his manicurist is so startled that she drops her scissors into the water. _“And we don’t know her.”_

The girl searches his face, probably trying to determine if his ever-so-slightly Asian features are the product of Vietnamese ancestry – and who knows, maybe they are. _“But…we don’t know you,_ ” she finally says, her expression wary and confused. Next to her, the other manicurist is practically rigid with fear. Their owner, whoever he is, might have tested their loyalty before.

L turns his gaze to meet B’s; if anyone has the skill to put the two women at ease, whether by manipulation or kindness, it’s got to be B.

* * *

 

 _Well that was bold, wasn’t it?_ B turns a serious face to the terrified women, trying to summon back his conversational Vietnamese, “ _You don’t tell us anything – we just want to know about the gone girls– So many, now.”_

The manicurist working at B’s feet takes in a sharp breath. A droplet falls into his bath from her face. “ _We already know you’re some of them. We want to help–”_ B hesitates before slipping in the lie.

 _“He’s looking for his…”_ the word for cousin trips on his tongue, “ _sister– not close. I’m sorry. My language is not very good. But he knows. I brought him here– to find her.”_

 _“She’s probably dead.”_ the manicurist at his feet whispers, and the one next to her gasps, slaps her on the shoulder. L doesn’t miss a beat, this time, letting an appropriately stricken expression flicker across his face. Maybe it isn’t faked.

“ _How could you help us?”_ L’s manicurist whispers, “ _He has eyes everywhere.”_

 _“By looking.”_ B says simply, “ _Then forcing everyone to see.”_

* * *

As Beyond spins out a tale for the manicurists in his halting Vietnamese, L does his best to project an air of quiet torment, twisting his hands together and staring into his lap.

Finally, he speaks up: _“Even if my cousin is dead, I want to know how and why. I want to tell her family. They’re so worried.”_ The girl at his feet has trouble looking at him, her neck and shoulders tight with tension. _“She left Hanoi with a man; he said he would help her, take care of her.”_

Pained recognition flickers over the features of B’s manicurist, so L continues. _“Who’s the man with eyes everywhere?”_ he urges, his own eyes wide and unguarded. He doubts that ‘the man’ is half so important as he’s lead the women to believe – their belief in his overblown mythology is key to holding sway over them. _“Do you know his name?”_

* * *

“Charlie Brown,” his manicurist says in broken English, even as her friend urges her to stay silent by pawing at her sleeve. _“He’s tall and bald. I think he fought in the war.”_

 _Charlie Brown._ A ripple of disgust worms its way through L’s belly. An alias, but a cute, cuddly one. That’s how this type of perpetrator works, fostering trust and offering comfort, up until the moment that they don’t. L feels B’s eyes trained on him, waiting for his response, so he swallows the disgust away and leans toward the manicurist like a confidant.

_“He runs this business?”_

The girl shakes her head. _“No, the woman does. His sister-in-law. He owns the whole property, though.”_

A family man. L would even bet that ‘Charlie Brown’ is married, too, perhaps with a few kids of his own.

Before L can press for more details, the door at the rear of the store opens and ‘the woman’ ambles out.

* * *

The tension in the room is thick – L flinching away from his manicurist almost a second too late. The woman glances at them suspiciously, but B has long since known how to handle people like this.

He waits till they are a in the peripheral vision to lean over to the shell of Lawliet’s ear and whispers audibly,“It’s okay, sweetheart. They don’t have to understand.” He squeezes his hand gently, to add sugar to the scene.

The woman looks momentarily like she wants to throw them out, but the contempt relaxes the muscles in her back. She pulls the curtain back with unnecessary force.

“Will you do glitter for me?” B asks when they begin on his toes, “Red, if you have it.” He points at the bottle and the girl gives him a watery smile.

They pass the rest of the outing in silence, the women showing attention to detail, but unwilling to speak further. _They’ve said enough for us to go off of_.When Lawliet goes up to pay, B slips them both a tip, “What’s your name?”

“Phuong,” she whispers, then moves close “ _Are you two–really?”_

B is taken aback for a moment by the question, opts for a light shrug instead. _We could be, he thinks.“You’re very smart. If you want to talk?”_ he stares at her questioningly. She looks both ways and nods.

“ _I’ll find you.”_

 _“Good luck,”_ she says, then waves in an exaggerated way, grinning too broadly for it to be comfortable, but with an air of it being a habit by now.

“Charlie Brown,” L says to B in a low voice as soon as they’re out of the salon and into the blinding sunlight. His feet still feel tingly from the pedicure, the sensation enhanced, perhaps, by the Adderall that’s just beginning to take full effect. His mind is sharp and focused, itching to take things apart and put them in order again. “Do you know that name at all?”

“It won’t be his real name, but perhaps you know of someone who fits the description?” As L talks he looks at the sign for the strip mall and counts off eight businesses – a dry cleaners, a pet shop, an insurance adjuster’s, and an assortment of others. Two doors down from the salon an empty storefront has a _FOR LEASE_ sign in the window.

He turns around to face Beyond, who’s got that smile on his face that L never knows quite what to make of (or he knows _exactly_ what to make of it, and simply chooses not to), and it strikes L as somehow impossible that they only reunited a little over twelve hours ago.

“Even if you don’t know him, we can always call this number.” L points at the _FOR LEASE_ sign. “Pretend to be small business upstarts looking for space to rent.”

* * *

 

B shakes out of his reverie, from the Lawliet in his mind’s eye to the bright-eyed one in front of him, “Yeah, that’s not a bad plan. Feel things out. Let me make some calls.”

They slip into a phone booth, B dialing the number rapid-force. A female voice starts on the other line, “ _Chambers Properties_ , how can I help you?”

B lets a bit of a drawl into his voice, to match the person he’ll be playing, “I’m interested in the lease down at Stewart Avenue. My name is Delancy deMontez, and I’m hoping to establish a private financial advising office. I can provide my credentials via fax, but I was hoping to speak with the property owner.”

“Ah yes. All business proposals will have to go through Mr. Alistair Chambers. I can make you an appointment for the 14th at the soonest.”

“That suits me fine.”

“Does 3pm fit in your schedule, sir?”

“I’ll have the proposal ready.” He hangs up with a click, winks at Lawliet, and dials again, his fingers familiar on the keys.

“Aiber? It’s B. You still in Vegas?”

“As long as it stays a gold mine. It’s almost boring how easy it is.” the voice on the other line chuckles, “And you know I’ve got at least one reason to stick around as long as things don’t go sour with my sweetie.”

 _“_ Do you think you’re up for a job? I think It’ll be a challenge, but we’ll see if it’s worth your time.”

“What’s the name of the game?”

 _“_ It’s with Chambers. I need you to talk to Alistair Chambers for me.”

A low whistle sounds on the other line, “Well, look who’s getting caught up in the mob scene.”

* * *

 

L leans half-in, half-out of the phone booth, straining to hear the voice on the other end of the line. Male, someone B calls _Aiber_ . The air in the booth is hot and stifling, but L’s brain is already racing over possibilities. _French? Another detective? Mercenary? Actor?_

When B tells this ‘Aiber’ that he needs him to talk to Alistair Chambers, L jumps slightly, looming close enough to grip B’s sleeve.

“Who is he?” he asks in an undertone. He won’t insult B by asking if he’s positive that Aiber is trustworthy, but that’s precisely what L is concerned about. Years ago, A once claimed that L’s need to verify things for himself was almost as profound as his need to breathe, and even L knows that she was only _slightly_ exaggerating.

* * *

 

“Conman,” B says, not bothering to lower his voice, and there’s a burst of a laugh from the other line. Lawliet furrows his brow distinctively, looking striking against the glass of the booth.

“Oh, you got a partner now?” Aiber sounds like he’s got a shit eating grin on the other line.

“Something like that.” B covers the mouthpiece a moment, “You wanna meet him?”

Lawliet nods vehemently, “Alright, Aiber, I reckon we should do the setup for this in person. Be safer that way. You in?”

“I assume the usual’s in it for me,” and B can almost picture his smirk.

“You know it.”

“Ah, you drive a hard bargain, Ryuzaki. Alright, alright. Meet at Double Down Saloon? Eight?”

“Ooh, my friend will fit in well there. Till then, Aiber.” He hangs up the phone and wipes it down for prints, grinning at Lawliet conversationally, “That went well.”

_Still so Mistrusting?_ [Do not edit or repost]

* * *

**May 12 1998 [evening]**

 

They end up back at the Golden Nugget because Beyond insists that his flowered rayon shirt is liable to get him booted out of the Double Down Saloon. He changes into an ensemble not too dissimilar from L’s disguise – vaguely punk, vaguely street. Downstairs in the casino, B snags a couple of slices of pizza from a vendor while L plays the slot machines with a fervered focus, determined to crack the code that sends coins spitting out at supposedly ‘random’ intervals. He knows very well that they’re all set on a timer, but is mindful of security cameras everywhere. Careful rotation ensures that he loses almost as much as he wins. It’s not as if he needs the money, anyway.

Beyond plays the dice games. His favorite.

_Down and Double_ [Do not edit or repost]

A blur of time later and the inside of the Double Down saloon is dim and reddish, but not so dim that L doesn’t get a clear view of the bar’s rather idiosyncratic decor. Every wall is plastered with band stickers and posters, or arcane and colorful graffiti. Behind the pool tables, a large sign proclaims: _SHUT UP AND DRINK_ . Another cautions: _You Puke, You Clean_. At eight there are quite a few regulars shooting pool and milling around with beer bottles in hand, all of them wearing artfully torn plaid and denim.  

L looks expectantly at B, whose eyes are raking over the crowd only to come away with nothing. Whoever Aiber is, they’ve beaten him to the bar.

No one asks for their IDs, and the bartender gives B a nod of familiarity. “The usual? Whiskey Wedding Cake?” she asks B, who nods back. L requests a Roy Rogers with extra grenadine and extra cherries, which makes the bartender take a closer look back and forth between them. “You two must be old friends,” she says.  

* * *

 

“Tch, Did he tell you to say that, Nia?” B takes the bright-sugared whiskey in one hand and does a once over of the bar again, “Probably hiding in plain sight.”

None of the barflies seem to have Aiber’s subtle tells (nor his name, Thierry Morello, though B prides himself on ‘cheating’ as little as possible). He eyes the husky stranger in the corner, but his nose shape is all wrong to be the man he’s after.

The hair on his neck stands on end as a touch just briefly grazes his spine, and a sharp grunt sounds behind him. Lawliet is up on the bar stool and has Aiber’s hand in a wicked wrist lock.

“Fuck, that’s quite the grip you’ve got there, Jesus.”

“Relax, Lev,” B presses a hand on Lawliet’s shoulder and he releases Aiber, “This is our man.”

“Sorry about that,” Aiber grins at L, who doesn’t return the smile, “Almost got you there, Ryuzaki.”

“Almost, although I’d normally be watching my back.” He side smiles towards his companion. _With Lawliet, I don’t need to._ It’s like the years between them really have collapsed. Or so it seems, for now.

“God god, like peas in a pod. You look alike, too.”

“We don’t get that a lot, people tend to fixate on the hair and the eyes.” _Though he’s not wrong, and Lawliet would know that better than anyone_ , B winks at Lawliet, thinking of disguise in his younger days.

“Easy fix with a bit of makeup and a cut though– same jaw, that always helps. Anyways,” Aiber slides lithely over the counter and motions to Nia, who preps him the usual dirty martini, “Are we going to talk business?”

* * *

 _Our man._ L isn’t so sure. Aiber smiles far too much for his liking, the smile of a movie star, an oil tycoon, and a used-car salesman, all wrapped into one. He looks like someone who would roll over for the highest bidder, which means that B isn’t paying him in money but something else.

“Are we going to talk business?”

From the way Aiber lifts his piercing blue eyes over the rim of his martini and casts them on B, rather expectantly, L judges that he’s on his best behavior, and despite that easy-going demeanor, is probably capable of some very bad acts. He’s got a scar just under his jaw that’s probably not a shaving injury, a jacket heavy enough to hide two holstered guns.

“Why not get to know each other, first?” L looms toward Aiber like a pendulum, fingers curled into his lower lip. “How do you know Ryu? I met him in Nashville back in 95′ when I tried my hand at blackmailing a congressman backed by the Dixie mafia.” He widens his eyes, his voice both robotic and rambling as he crams another maraschino cherry into his mouth. “Almost got ugly, but Ryu helped me out of a tight spot in exchange for a buy-in. I helped him back…” he raises a shy gaze to B “…been helping him ever since.”

Aiber stares at him wordlessly, so L lets out an odd chuckle and reaches around Aiber to paw at B’s shoulder. “Word of advice,” he says in Aiber’s ear, loud enough so B won’t miss it. “Don’t try to have Ryu killed again. It’ll put a damper on things.”

* * *

 

B cocks his head half-curious, half flattered as he watches Lawliet unravel almost the entire sordid story of he and Aiber’s sometimes-partnership, sometimes-friendship. The memories aren’t ones he’d care to remember. _How much of that did he infer?_ Surely not all of it– B knows. Their phone conversations aren’t frequent nor forthcoming.

Still, he keeps tabs on L. _Didn’t think he’d do the same._ He allows a small smile to flit across his face, trying to ignore the pickup of his pulse as Lawliet leans in with a hand to his shoulder.

_“Don’t try to have Ryu killed again. It’ll put a damper on things.”_

B’s knuckles go white against his glass, remembering that hit in a memory so vivid it almost fills the room. Aiber had sent a decent hitman, an expensive choice. Bullet graze and a shattered rib, but it was the hitman who ended up a bloody (but breathing) pulp-package at the police station, as a message to Aiber. And he finished the followup on the Dixie mafia with a broken rib and a shitty set of stitches.

He remembers that month, and Lawliet sure as hell didn’t call.

 _I’m not anyone’s fucking damsel in distress, Lawliet, least of all yours._ He slams down the drink to shake Lawliet’s arm off, forces a smile, “Well, that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? Been almost two years.”

 _Though clearly, it’s not like you would have bothered anyways. Maybe not until now that A’s dead._ The thought sends a churn of revulsion through his stomach. He swallows a mouthful of sickly whiskey, “And we’ve done a lot more together since then.”

“The fuck is this guy, Ryuzaki?” Aiber leans towards him conspiratorially.

B shakes his head, rolls his eyes, “Partner. It’s like I said. Anyways. Business, right?” he gives Lawliet a meaningful look before describing the setup to Aiber.

“I’ve got a business meeting set up with Alistair Chambers. You’re  Delancy deMontez, a private financial advising officer. You’re looking to set up an office on the Stewart Avenue strip.”

Aiber rolls his eyes, “You know setting up the fake creds is going to be a pain where Chambers is involved. I’m not hoping for my body to end up in a hole in the desert.”

“Wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you could do it.” B keeps things friendly, “ I need you to go in there, and tell me everything you see about Chambers. Gain his trust, find out who his friends are. Keep an eye out for what he’s selling too.”

“Drug bust?”

“I’m thinking he’s dealing human meat.”

Aiber lets out a low whistle, “Thought that was just an urban legend. Alright, I’m on top of it. But if I lose a kidney for this, you owe me one, big time.”

“Stay on top of it then.” B gives him a signature grin with just an ounce of the macabre. Aiber’s number isn’t up for another few years at least.

Aiber shakes his head and shakes B’s hand, then turns back to Lawliet with a hint of unease. He offers a hand, “Lev, is it? Well, always nice to make new ‘friends’, like Ryuzaki anyways.”

* * *

 

“The pleasure was mine,” L says in a rusty, detached way. From behind Aiber’s shoulder, B gives L a pressing look. L returns it with a small smile, which he then trains on Aiber, who seems to visibly relax.

“I can take care of those fake creds for you.” L removes a pen and one of the _Vegas Nails_ business cards from the pocket of his denim jacket. “Call this number and leave the details of your request, and an address where they can be delivered on the morning of the 14th.” He offers the card to Aiber, who takes it in a fumbling grip, his expression dazedly surprised.

“Thanks,” he says, stuffing the card into his wallet.

“Don’t mention it.” L sits back on his bar stool and offers Aiber a genial nod once he finishes saying his goodbyes to “Ryuzaki” and throws a tenner on the counter for his martini.

“I’ll be in touch, gentlemen,” he says as he sweeps his way toward the exit.  

“Well,” L says, rotating slowly in his stool and fishing the last cherry from his drink. “So that was Aiber.” Whatever happens, L supposes that Aiber will at least survive his encounter with Chambers; B would have known, if not.

Idly, L wonders how much longer the two girls at the nail salon had until their death date. He looks back to B to ask, the beginnings of an idea scratching at the back of his brain, but the expression on B’s face brings the idea’s formation to a halt.

“You look like your drink’s gone bad,” he observes, chewing on the end of his straw.

* * *

 

 _“You look like your drink’s gone bad,”_ B’s lips twist ugly, and he downs the rest of the whiskey without batting an eye.

“Need a smoke.” he leaves Lawliet at the bar without waiting for a comment.

Outside, in the heat and hum of the Las Vegas night, his hands shake as he goes to light the cigarette, “Fuck.” he whispers as he brings it to his lips.

 _Five years convincing myself Lawliet simply doesn’t_ do _things like that. Doesn’t do personal, doesn’t give a damn about anything that doesn’t immediately concern his case._ Those five years are coming on like a hurricane, B is trying his damndest not to get swept away. To stay in the eye. _That’s what Lawliet is so damn good at, isn’t it? Him and A…right up until when she couldn’t anymore._

The sharpness of a streetlight casts an afterimage of his shadow. There’s a figure behind him. _And you just can’t fucking stay away._

 _“_ Just thinking about the last few years, is all,” B says, trying to ignore the rawness in his voice. Lawliet has that confused stare, the one he gets when he’s trying to unravel a puzzle rather than a human being. It’s that thought that pushes B into the storm.

“Let me spell this out for you: I don’t understand why or how you knew about what happened with Aiber. But what I really, really don’t understand, is why you bothered to know in the first place. Two years ago and you never asked a goddamn thing about that night,” B laughs high and wild, and he knows he’s losing it because there are colors exploding behind his irises; but he doesn’t stop because it feels so damn good.

Five years in the waiting good.

“If I’m just going to be an asset to you, fine. I spent five fucking years trying to live with that. Some of us couldn’t, but I’m pretty sure I can. But don’t try to be my friend unless you fucking mean it.”

* * *

 

_Some of us couldn’t…_

L doesn’t think that Beyond is _actually_ blaming him for A’s suicide so much as tossing out a few weapons and seeing if any happen to hit their target. Even so, the whole thing is tiresome, and L crouches down and leans into the iron of the stair railing to avoid the harsh smoke pouring from B’s lips.

Searching for the words that will reel B away from the edge is a sticky task. _Yes, I am your friend,_ would be the easiest and most direct route to consolation, and perhaps the first one L would choose if he didn’t know that for B, friendship bleeds over into something else – at least when it’s with L Lawliet. Something romantic in line with _Romanticism_ , characterized by wild impracticality and outrageous ideals. L’s been there and knows it as both profoundly intoxicating, profoundly uncomfortable.

 _Yes, you’re just an asset_ would be another half-true, but L excels at half-truths and half-lies. B would find it painful, yes, but in the long run perhaps preferable, in its own way.

L likes and prefers clear categorization, most of the time. Especially when it comes to people. But the longer he lives (not long, so far), the more he sees how categories collapse under their own weight, revealed as imaginary constructs that offer the illusion of control.

So if B wants to know where they stand – well, he’ll have to face up to the inescapable ambiguity of it.

“What is there to understand?” L comes to his feet slowly, speaking in a calm, unaffected tone even though a part of him wonders if B might be more satisfied to see L as worked up as he is. “You were my first friend, first punch to the gut, first lover, first ‘asset,’ and as far as I know, that’s what I was for you. So you fill a category all your own, you see.” He pats at his pockets until he finds a sugar packet he squirrelled away, ripping it open and sprinkling it on his tongue. “S’pose it’ll always be that way.”

_Smoking in Silence_ [Do not edit or repost]

* * *

 

B takes a long drag of the cigarette, enough to make him cough. The smoke is hot and thick in his lungs, but the fire has gone out in him. _Categories and little locked boxes, isn’t that how Lawliet always operated?_ He closes his eyes, remembering their last argument so many years before. In some ways, the anger is just as raw, just as real as it was before.

But in some ways, it’s completely different. Lawliet is giving him honesty. That’s more than he would have given then. He thinks about A’s rare quicksilver smile and tries, _tries_ for the best honesty he has.

 _“_ There isn’t a category for what you are to me, Lawliet.” he says quietly, taking a seat on the steps. He stubs out his cigarette on the cold concrete as Lawliet sits down slightly above him. After a moment, he turns to look into Lawliet’s fathomless eyes.

“Look, truth is. Things weren’t easy for me in those years. There weren’t a lot of people I saw, not a lot of things I wouldn’t do. I thought a lot about doing what A did. And I saw a lot of her, in the first few years especially. In some ways, that kept me okay. Just knowing she was out there. But it still was hell. And I don’t like to think about it being hell for her.” He raises a hand as Lawliet goes to speak, “Look, I know it isn’t the same but? It doesn’t feel that way.”

He lets the words settle before giving one more truth, “I don’t want things to go back to that. But I don’t want those years to be for nothing, either, right? I was messed up about you. I don’t want to be anymore.”

* * *

L doesn’t care for any of this. Doesn’t care to hear how B has had thoughts of killing himself in the years stretching behind them, how B has been ‘messed up’ about him. Doesn’t care for the mild nausea tugging at his stomach. It’s not just the conversation; he hasn’t had an actual meal today, nor the appetite for one.

If there’s one thing that A was brilliant at (and there were many things), it was being what people needed at any given moment. B had needed a confidante, clearly, and A provided him with one. Perhaps A even confided back, and B is only just now coming to terms with the degree of what she must have withheld.  

Studying the back of B’s stiff shoulders, L thinks: _B believes that I’m fine without him._ And the truth is that L could be fine without B. He could force himself into that spot. L can force himself into any spot, no matter how ugly and terrible that spot is. That’s what it means to be him.

But he’d rather not force himself there. Not yet, anyway.

“Is my being here right now ‘messing you up’?” he asks B’s profile, most of which is hidden in shadow.

* * *

Lawliet has that hard, flinty look in his eyes, the kind that he makes right before he wraps himself in layers of his own pain and pretends it doesn’t mummify him alive. Which it will and it has, and B hates watching it happen.

B, he just lights it all up and lets the flame burn him clean again. _Different coping mechanisms, isn’t that what A would have said?_

“Right now? I’m trying not to hit you, yeah,” B knots his fingers together, but doesn’t fold just yet, “Being here though– It’s probably the best thing that’s happened in years. I’d almost forgotten what a hell of a team we make. I just. I keep thinking what it would be like if we had something like that again– not the same cause you’ve got your whole world to scheme over, and I _like_ the way I work now, but we could still talk. Stop…missing each other.”

There’s silence for a while and B doesn’t push. He doesn’t even look at Lawliet, because he’s almost afraid to. He just nibbles at the nicotine on his fingertips, watches the flashing lights in the distance.

“Do you wanna go back to the _Nugget,_ sift through some files?” It’s a peace offering, and a bit of a shitty one, but the emotional angle has never gotten him anywhere with Lawliet in the past. He doubts that’s changed now, “We can order in or something.”


	4. Chapter 3: May 13-14 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chicas Bonitas is an actual strip club in Vegas, I couldn't make something this dumb up if I tried

**May 13 1998**

L Lawliet wakes up at noon with the taste of strawberry jam sticky-sweet on the back of his tongue. Beyond is already awake, still damp from a shower and flipping through a copy of the _Las Vegas Sun._ L croaks a weak ‘good morning’ at him and staggers his way into the bathroom. Four hours of sleep. He can make that work.

Under the steam of the shower L replays the events from the day before: pedicures under harsh fluorescent lights; Aiber’s glass-cut jaw; cherry-juice stained fingers; B’s words, way too many of them for L to hold on to.

When they ended up back at the hotel room they watched a _James Bond_ marathon on telly to pass the time and avoid descending back into the same spiral of conversation. Just before sunrise, they had breakfast sent up. Fruit and toast for L, steak and eggs for B. Lots of strawberry jam for them both. Somewhere between _For Your Eyes Only_ and _Octopussy_ , L fell asleep.

Out of the shower, he brushes his teeth for as many minutes as he can stand. _B doesn’t want things to end like they did last time,_ he thinks. L can make sure that it won’t. He can try to make sure.

He comes out swathed in one of the hotel robes, rubbing a towel at his hair. Beyond is still looking at the newspaper, but he lifts his eyes to L’s as L approaches.

“B, those girls at the salon yesterday – did you happen to notice if their death dates were coming up soon?” he asks.

Might as well get back on the case. The space where they work together best for now.

* * *

 

B feels almost fond as he watches L shake the morning off the dripping tips of his hair. He could get used to this routine, but not too used to it. Perhaps once every month or so would be enough. Though the urge to part Lawliet’s robe and skate fingers over his thin ribcage rolls up more suddenly than he would have expected.

 _Hello, temptation_. B smiles though. It’s a welcome change to the raw, desperate desire to know Lawliet, be known by him.  

_“B, those girls at the salon yesterday – did you happen to notice if their death dates were coming up soon?”_

_“_ Not quite, they all had a solid number of years left. Which bodes well for our success with the case, I suppose,” B spins around in his chair idly, “We could keep looking, I know quite a few Chambers establishments. Likelihood of a death being related to whatever this is seems decent, although that guy you shot seems to think they all had their ‘purpose’. The ones out in the field, well. They might not be up for the chopping block just yet. But it’s our best chance for leads until Aiber gets in there, so why not?”

Lawliet shrugs, and B grins back, “Let’s go looking for living ghosts.”

They trawl the city in their grunge disguises, poking into nail parlors and hair salons, but most of the numbers are pretty high up. B reckons they’ll have to wait for the nightlife to find those considered more ‘disposable’. He regrets his choice of words, but Lawliet seems unfazed.

The false credentials that Lawliet ordered arrive couriered to their hotel room later that afternoon. B is impressed, but L doesn’t bat an eye, just re-addresses them after verifying them and sends them along.

 _There are some perks to being ‘the Greatest’_ , B supposes.  

In the evening they end up at the _Chicas Bonitas_ strip club. It’s a shady little dive with a Mexican theme and the lap dances cheap enough that it makes Lawliet think there might be a reason for it.

And since when is Lawliet ever wrong?

It’s busier than he would have expected though, on the inside. More men with their suit jackets off and their ties loosened than the grunge crowd that he and Lawliet project. He scans the red numbers floating next to the topless dancers and zeroes in on the tall, dead-eyed one to the right of the bar, swishing her long black hair over a straining purple bustier.

“That one’s number is up tonight.” B whispers in Lawliet’s ear as they sidle into a table.

_Chicas Bonitas_ [do not edit or repost]

 _Chicas Bonitas_ smells of spilt, soured beer and vanilla perfume. The girls who are wandering the floor instead of dancing onstage don’t give L or B more than a cursory once-over, and L imagines that they’ve both been easily written off as underage and practically penniless. Useless for tips, useless for private dances. The fact that B’s dressed them both in shades of black on denim (more polished their yesterday’s disguises, but nothing remotely impressive) probably doesn’t do much to boost their value.

_“That one’s number is up tonight.”_

L’s eyes flick toward the tall woman, who from the glazed look on her face might be making it  through her shift with a little pharmaceutical help. L can commiserate, having given himself a boost of Adderall three hours earlier.

“Pardon me.” L flags down a cocktail waitress using his most posh, prep-school accent. “I see your VIP room is unoccupied. May we please be seated there?” He passes her a neatly folded fifty and her smile turns on like a spotlight.

“Yes, of course gentlemen,” she says and leads them to a roped off area that barely contains a half-dozen vinyl club chairs, the lighting low and blueish. Rather worn-looking velvet curtains are held back on hooks, offering the suggestion of potential privacy. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“Champagne, thank you” L says, polite as can be. His eyes are wide, like a kid who’s just been sent out to spend daddy’s money. “Most expensive in the house.” Even a dive like this probably has a bottle of _Dom_ or _Cristal_ on hand, just in case a high-roller stops by, slumming it for the night.

“You got it. I’ll be right back with that.” She beams at them again and heads back to the bar, stopping along the way to whisper in the ears of a few dancers on the floor, all of whom glance toward the VIP area with expressions of renewed interest. _Just two_ w _ealthy and utterly innocuous lads on holiday,_ he thinks, and is pleased when he sees that B, too, has put on his “good boy” smile. It still looks dangerous as hell to L, but those who don’t know better would never suspect a thing.

“When she comes back she’ll probably ask us if we want a lap dance from any of the women, right? ‘Ms. Number’s Up’ doesn’t look too busy.” He gives B a conspiratorial look. “I’ll ask if she can join us.”

* * *

 

 _He’s still got the ‘innocent type’ in his repertoire,_ B muses. Though it brings back some bad memories, it’s comforting at least to see how well L handles it. L whispers something to the waitress, slipping her a bill, and she nods twice, then passes them flutes of champagne.

It tastes dry and riddled with conceit. Champagne has always left a bad taste in B’s mouth. But he clinks glasses with Lawliet to keep up the show, “Thanks mate.”

A moment later the music shifts from cheap Latin imitations with a back beat to a grinding guitar riff that B recognizes all too well. _Def Leppard?_ He doesn’t even have a chance to throw Lawliet a questioning glance when dancer in the purple bustier strides in and gives him a cheap pout, a bored-looking bouncer behind her.

 _Oh. I see._ He spreads his legs and grins as she starts to move, swaying her voluptuous hips to the hi-hat crash. She knows how to use herself, bending her spine to show off the glistening caramel of her breasts.

She’s already got his full attention when she slides onto his lap, takes his fingertips to her lips and grinds into him. She keeps good eye contact, but there’s a layer underneath it that B still sees as an accusation. It’s almost more intoxicating that way. When she stands up to thrust her ass in the bright red spandex and tease him by slowly unzipping the bustier, he makes the mistake of glancing at Lawliet.

His lips are open and gaping, finger pressed there, eyes glazed and roaming over B’s and the woman’s body alike with no sense of propriety. For a moment, he feels equally stripped bare, a painted scene for Lawliet’s pleasure. The thought sends shivers down the back of his neck. The woman notices B’s distraction and arches her breasts, naked in B’s face. She smells like vanilla. B’s pretty sure he hasn’t been this hard in years.

In any case ‘ _Pour Some Sugar on Me’_ is a far shorter song than he remembers it being. She peels away too soon, and when she does, L is sipping his champagne with a shit-eating grin, as if this were a normal exchange between conspiring schoolmates.

“Thanks, sugar,” he says, a little dazed as she pulls away with a perfunctory wink and a kiss on the cheek.

* * *

“You’re a very good dancer,” L says politely as the woman turns on him, rezipping her bustier and pasting on a smile just in case he wants to pay her another hundred for his own private dance.

L looks around her at Beyond, who looks too warm but otherwise flush and pleased, and L gives him another sly smile before he checks himself. _Don’t get too caught up in the moment, Lawliet._ B looks too damn fascinating with that expression on his face. Better than L remembers.

“I was wondering…” L leans in toward her, half-expecting the bouncer to bark something at him, but the large man remains stoic and barely-watchful. He’s probably been instructed to make sure that L and B are kept happy, rather than watch out for the dancer.  “…Is there any place where we can have an even _more_ private dance?” He gives her a smile that he hopes is heartbreaking in its earnestness.  

“Um.” She flips her hair around as she visually checks in with the bouncer, who waits a few beats before giving her a tight nod. “No,” she says, swiveling back to L, her smile stiffer than ever. “But my shift is over pretty soon, if you two would like to take me out for pancakes.”

L barely has time to mentally note that the girl speaks standard American English with a Midwest accent. _Pancakes?_ He shoots a look at B, who gives him no more than a twitch of a shrug.  

“Yes, we would love pancakes,” L breathes eagerly, and her smile almost looks real for a second, but in a pitying way, as if she’s decided that she’s dealing with someone slightly touched in the head.

“Wonderful,” she says. “Meet me at the back exit at eleven.” Her spangly earrings clack together when she rises to her full height and strides out of the VIP area. The bouncer eases away, too, and once L ad B are alone, L is finally free to make a face at the glass of champagne next to him. _Way_ too dry.

“Well,” he says, pushing his glass aside, then flashing B a smile that’s markedly less innocent than the one he’d reserved for the dancer. “Looks like we have a date tonight.”

* * *

 

At eleven the woman turns up at the back exit and walks them a few blocks to a 24-hour International House of Pancakes. B hadn’t thought she was being serious, but appreciates that of all the last meals to have, pancakes thick with syrup and fruit is a damn good choice.

Lawliet asks her all kinds of questions, her name, her background, where she buys her clothes, makes her out to be a real ‘pretty woman’. It would almost be impressive if B didn’t know this is one of his best and only disguises. Still, he wears it well, enjoying the pancakes with enough syrup that the woman wrinkles her nose and teases him.

When she pushes her hair back, he spots the small flower tattoo on her neck. _Chalk another one up for Mr. Chambers._

She asks for 400$ after dinner. Lawliet turns it up in cash, without question, keeping his eager eyes on her lush lips. She looks disappointed, momentarily– one might think she would have asked for more, but B thinks she wishes Lawliet had turned her down, or at least negotiated.

It’s getting damn close to midnight when she takes them down the street to her apartment. She’s pasted a smile on her face, but B can tell by the way her hands shake that whatever she was on is starting to wear off.

Her apartment is clean, at least, with a half-hearted attempt at ‘sexy’ decor. Velour red curtains and a black cover over the couch. _Cute_. B thinks, and takes a seat there. She puts on some music and motions for them to sit down.

“I’ll just take a moment to freshen up,” she smiles too wide.

It’s seven minutes to midnight when they hear a loud _thump_ against the bathroom door.

* * *

 

Though he’s not typically one to get anxious, L is made uneasy by how long it’s taking the dancer-turned-prostitute to ‘freshen up.’ It’s creeping up on midnight, and according to Beyond, her time is up tonight, not tomorrow. It’s looking very unlikely that she’ll be anyone’s organ donor, so what could be the reason for her untimely demise?

He nibbles on the edge of his thumb and casts his eyes on B, who’s practically camouflaged on the black couch, looking more or less unconcerned.

 _What if,_ L thinks, _she’s getting a gun or some other kind of weapon, and the reason she dies is because we kill her?_ Other possibilities follow on the heels of that one, and L once again gets a taste of why this ‘gift’ makes B feel like he’s losing his mind.

When the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor travels from the bathroom, L and B waste no time hurrying down the short hallway and throwing the door open. The woman lies prone on the cold, tile floor next to the bathtub, dressed in a short robe made out of cheap lace, a needle still lodged in her foot. The rest of her gear is laid out on the edge of the tub: spoon, lighter, cotton, baggie of brown powder.

“Hey, hey,” L chants, kneeling down beside her and reaching for her wrist. “Jessica?” – it was the name she’d given them – “Can you hear me?”

She isn’t breathing. Her pulse is barely there. A heroin overdose shouldn’t kill someone this quickly, unless her stash was cut with something even more dangerous. _Like fentanyl._

“B,” L says calmly, though he’s anything but and can’t stop his hands from shaking. “We’ve got to call an ambulance. She can still be revived if we act fast enough.”

* * *

 

B checks his watch. Two minutes to midnight. He meets Lawliet’s eyes and sees the onslaught of memory ripping forth to the surface. _Shit, shit._ He doesn’t break eye contact, “It’s two minutes to midnight. The ambulance would never make it in time.”

Panic rises in dark eyes, only to be snuffed out by practised layers of rationality. The wall won’t last long, B can tell. He speaks slowly, rationally, “If we call an ambulance, we risk blowing our cover and learning nothing. And she’ll still die. You know this.”

B kneels down, laces his fingers around the woman’s wrist so that Lawliet’s are touching his and they both have a thumb on her fading pulse. He presses his hand on Lawliet’s other hand, the grip tight enough to be painful. He doesn’t break eye contact.

This scene encompasses the two things B is certain of. The first being that everyone, regardless of age, money, status, fame, religion, the whole shit, dies on or before their death date.

The second being that there is Lawliet, a Lawliet underneath the L, and that he’s just as devastatingly human as B, as A, as the woman whose pulse is weak against his fingertips.

“Just keep your eyes on me.”

There’s memory in this moment, there’s history playing on loop again again again, but that’s just a projection. A hallucination. Really, there’s just Lawliet’s shock-dark eyes and the slow silence that follows midnight.

* * *

Beyond is squeezing his hand very tight, and L registers that fact despite barely feeling the pressure. His breath is like ice water sloshing around his chest and _why_ – why for a person he doesn’t even know, who’s last trickle of life is now slipping away, like the last grain of sand dropping into an hourglass, and no one there to turn it over.

_Keep your eyes on me._

B’s eyes are hazel, a word that L has never liked because all it does is describe eyes that are more than one color. In B’s case: Green and yellow; hints of amber, too, in certain lights.

She’s out of pain now, L knows that much. Knows it to well. This kind of overdose is like slipping into a dream of a warm bath, and the lungs and the heart fall asleep, too.

“B.” L flexes his fingers in B’s grip. “What will we –”

 _What will we do with her,_ is what he’s going to say, but the words are cut off by the sound of the apartment’s front door opening, hard enough for the floors to rattle.

“Rosie!” A man calls out, brash voice echoing down the hallway. “Why _the fuck_ didn’t you answer my page?”

The surreality of the woman’s death pops like a soap bubble, and B drops his hand and pivots toward the man’s voice, alert as a cat. L’s fingers curl together into loose fists. Neither he nor B are packing bullets tonight, but they both have knives. And wits.

Heavy, booted feet pass the bathroom door, and B tosses L a pink towel, giving him a few of the hand signals they came up with years ago. It’s a close match to L’s own plan: wait until they can get him from behind, hood him with the towel, then go for the neck, knees and – ironically – the kidneys. L twists the towel between his hands and gives B a furtive nod.

* * *

Lawliet doesn’t miss a beat, hops into the bathtub and pulls the shower curtain to hide his form. B turns the door handle just loudly enough for the man, boyfriend or pimp to hear. The door opens ajar to reveal the woman’s corpse in a still life on the floor. B stays behind the door frame.

“Rosie! You little bitch, what the fuck have you done?” the boots loom closer, B presses his body against the wall, anticipating the slam of the door as the man storms in. In his peripheral vision B can make out the shape of him– short and brutish. He kicks her body, “ _Fuck_. Fuckin’ addicts always leaving a mess for me to clean up.”

He spits on her, giving Lawliet the opening to make his move. The curtain falls; the pink towel is over the eyes, and B slams the door shut, catching the man in the shoulder so he wobbles backwards, but not quite into the bathtub. He’s a tough one. B manages to get a shattering kick to the knees before he throws Lawliet off.

But not before Lawliet has hold of the pistol jammed into the man's pocket. He almost lunges for B but goes stock still when Lawliet presses the cool metal of the gun to his neck.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” B eyes his death date as the present and taps at his watch. Lawliet nods, “Kneel. Unless you want a bullet through your brain now, rather than later.”

* * *

The man kneels with a groan, twisting his head slightly in an attempt to throw the towel off his eyes.

“Don’t,” L cautions, jamming the gun harder into his neck while B secures the towel in place. “We have some questions for you. If you want to live you will answer all of them.”

“What do you want?” The man spits out, doing his best to maintain a facade of toughness. His breath is fast and ragged, though, betraying both fear and frustration.

“You’re ‘Rosie’s’ pimp?” L’s eyes flit to the woman’s body on the floor. _Rosie, Jessica, whoever you were._

The man presses his lips together, but gives a stiff nod.

“But she wasn’t your property,” L asserts. “You’re not Charlie Brown.” He frowns to himself, thinking of the difference between the dancer and the girls in the salon, who aside from being frightened, appeared healthy and well-cared for. Probably not drug addicts. Taking in the man’s scowling mouth, the gold chains under his polo shirt, and the heavy watch on his wrist, L judges him a middleman of sorts. He’ll know _some_ things at least.

“Your syndicate’s involved in black market organ trafficking,” L announces, and the man bursts out with a string of weak denials. “It’s no use, we know.” L adjusts his grip on the gun. “Are any of the girls in your stable candidates for organ donation?”

“No,” the man admits with a slight tremor. “They turn tricks, man. Most of ‘em are strung out all day. They’re not clean enough for the top tier.”

 _Tier?_ L’s eyes widen and meet B’s, his finger caressing the pistol’s trigger.

He probably shouldn’t be the one holding the gun. Not right now.

* * *

B’s eyes zero in on L’s hair-trigger finger. The man’s getting nervous, and Lawliet doubly so. But they’re both getting close to a fear-wrought confession, so B raises the intimacy, flicking out his butterfly knife with finesse.

The man’s shaking goes up a notch, redoubling as B places the knife under the towel, swipes a finger into to his left eye, forces the eyelid shut, the man gasps slightly, throat convulsing like he might throw up, “Tell me where they ship them in.”

“I don’t know.” he chokes out

“’ _Eye_ ’ don’t believe you,” B whispers in sing-song manner, then nicks the man’s eyelid. Not enough to cut through, but oh does it _bleed,_ curtains of crimson painting his scream a lovely shade to B’s eyes, “Let’s try that again, shall we, Mitchell. Where are they shipped in?”

“Oh god. It’s a private airport near Dry Lake. Fuck, fuck they’re going to kill me, they’re going to.”

“Oh no, Mitch, we’re going to do that.”

B lifts the knife and the man almost tries to force himself forward in desperation, but the two of them react at the same time, Lawliet cinching an arm around his neck, and B shoving him into the porcelain of the tub to knock him out.

“Damn. Didn’t quite mean to hit him that hard.” B stares at the arrangement of limbs, “Looks like they died together that way.”

He looks at Lawliet strangely for a moment, then reaches for the still half-full syringe of heroin, an almost impish smile playing on his lips, “And wouldn’t that be black justice? A good cover for us, too.”

* * *

As he stares at the needle in Beyond’s hand, L feels divided in the moment. B is treating murder with casual cheerfulness, no surprise, but even if the man is a pimp who exploited women, got them hooked on drugs, and undoubtedly did other horrible things to them, L doesn’t deal with criminals by murdering them.

But Vegas is B’s house, really, and L is just a tourist. Shutting down the organ trafficking operation is the primary goal, and leaving the pimp alive is likely to threaten that goal. Necessity dictates.

L’s eyes drop to the woman, her head resting on the powder blue rug as if she might just be having a nap, then travel over to the unconscious man, a trickle of blood still weeping from his eye. _Why should I care about you any more than you cared about her?_ L thinks.

Finally, he gives B a small nod. “He’s double her weight, probably. We’ll need to cook another dose.” He collects the spoon, lighter, and baggie of powder with calm efficiency. When they’re finished, he’ll wipe off his prints and make sure to pass all the items through Rosie and Mitch’s cold hands.

Once he’s added a little water and heated it with the lighter, the dope starts to bubble in the spoon, letting off none of the vinegary odor that heroin is known for – yet another indicator that it’s very pure or has been mixed with fentanyl.

L glances up at B as he finishes prepping the dose. What was left in the syringe has already disappeared into a vein in the pimp’s wrist. “You’ll have to inject this one, too,” he says quietly, hand outstretched for the syringe. He loads it and passes it back to B.

When the needle goes in, he looks away.

_For Rosie and For Lawliet_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

**May 14 1998 [noon]**

The noon sun filters through the window pane just sharply enough to jar B out of sleep. His eyes open slowly to the drab hotel room. _Almost seven hours. That hasn’t happened in a while._

Lawliet’s notes are scattered in small nests on his bed. They had been trading theories about the case, Lawliet frantic with ideas ever since they’d left the apartment. He’d made three calls to a long-suffering Watari and ordered a pot of coffee to the room. _Losing himself in the work_. The patterns are all the same.

At some point in the morning B must have drifted off, which hasn’t happened in a while. No dreams too. _Small mercies_ , he thinks, flashing back to the corpses of the previous night.

“Damn,” B rolls over to see L on the other bed, perched in an even larger nest and assuming a meditative squat. The floor is littered with empty sugar packets, “Have you slept at all?”

The black shadows under L’s eyes speak volumes, “Alright, alright, tell me what you’ve got.”

* * *

L hasn’t slept, in fact, and the lack of rest has made his voice even rustier than usual. “I was on the phone with Q, my associate, for a number of hours.” He plucks up a sheaf of notes between his fingers. “Sand Valley airport uses a private security firm called Protection One. Q was able to hack into their servers and pull the cargo detail for the last several months.” L drops the papers and curls his fingers together, all of his joints aching in protest. “It was a lot to copy down over the phone, but we managed.”

He pauses, and offers B a small smile. “Needless to say, I’ll be covering the hotel phone bill.”

He rifles through the papers again, laying several of them out in a haphazard line. “The airport has a lot of traffic, considering it’s small size. Most of the cargo is wealthy travelers who charter jets at the last minute.”

“Nothing in the security cargo detail appears to be unusual,” he continues, spreading his hands to gesture at the notes. “Eventually I stopped looking for what was there, and tried looking at what _wasn’t_ there.” He taps his fingers on three different spots. “There’s a black hour every week. An hour where the cargo doesn’t get recorded. Last week it was at 11 pm, and the week before it was at 2 am. Protection One is being paid to turn a blind eye to whatever comes in during these assigned black hours.”

L finds another sugar packet on the bed, discovers that it’s already ripped open and empty. “Oh, and I found out who owns the airport, too. Deon and Saul Fredericks.” He lets the sugar packet flutter back down to the bedspread.

* * *

“Seems like it’s time we paid a visit to Mr. Fredericks,” B stretches like a cat, “Saul, I know, the brother, actually owns a pharmaceutical company that’s more or less statewide. The story is that he and his brother don’t speak. But maybe we shouldn’t buy that.”

Lawliet nods vehemently and is rifling through the stack of his notes with the name ‘Fredericks’ scrawled over top. B picks up one of the crumpled note pages on Protection One, eyes flickering over the dates and times of the black hours. They seem familiar to him, in a haphazard way that recalls a pattern he’d spent far too long laughing about.

“There’s an event in the downtown strip that happens once a week. It’s called ‘The Laughing Camel’ – different club every time, different time, but it’s popularity is unbelievable. Dancers, drugs, whatever you want, you can get it. And the police keep a close eye on it because there have been riots in the past. The last few have been around these times. Guess they use it as cover.” B nibbles at his knuckles a moment before realizing he is, in fact, quite hungry. He eyes the sugar packets doubtfully.

“Okay, I’m going to call in for room service, do you want anything?” B cocks his head but Lawliet doesn’t even look up, “I’m ordering you French toast.”

 

* * *

_Half-Sugared_ [do not edit or repost]

L is still looking through his notes by the time their food is rolled in on a cart, mulling over the possibilities that are bobbing up in his mind.

_Pharmaceuticals….investors…parent companies….medical research corps…_

The smell of freshly brewed coffee makes him look up from his crouched position on the bed. Next to the urn of coffee is a pitcher of orange juice, which looks so suddenly and mouth-wateringly good that he practically scrambles over for a glass so that he can pour himself some.

“Mm, you ordered me french toast,” he observes, lifting the serving lid off one of the plates. “With bananas and blueberries.Thanks.”

B gives him an odd smile and forks up some of his omelette, smoking a cigarette between bites of food and sips of coffee. They’ve barely made it halfway through their meal when another knock sounds at the hotel room door.

“I’ll get it this time,” L offers, pushing his napkin aside and padding over to the door. The peephole reveals a white, toothy smile and vivid blue eyes. Aiber.

L unlocks the door and swings it open, still chewing on a mouthful of banana.

“Good morning,” he says, swallowing. “Or afternoon.”

Aiber looks right past him to B, who’s shirtless and lounging sideways in his chair, coffee cup dangerously loose in his fingers.

“I didn’t know you did breakfast meetings, Ryuzaki,” Aiber drawls, lifting his eyebrows high. “Is there enough for me?”

* * *

B laughs, a high, wicked guffaw at Aiber’s leer, “If I said, this isn’t what it looks like–”

“I wouldn’t believe you for a damn minute.”

“It isn’t; for the record.” B takes a bite of his omelette, which is satisfactory with thick cheese and ham.

“S’just as well, don’t think Lillian would be amused. I told her about what happened in ‘Frisco.”

B does a mock-gasp, “And here I thought that was between us, darling. You _are_ serious about this one.”

“Ryuzaki, since when am I ever serious?”

L clears his throat rather conspicuously and B blows him a kiss. He keeps his face impassive, but his eyes glitter sharply. _Same games, huh Lawliet?_ He takes a swig of his coffee and gets down to business, before things get carried away.

“So you’re here early.”

“Yeah, he moved up my appointment. Pretty last-minute too, though I think it did me favours in the way I handled it. Didn’t let him push me around, but gave a little,”

“For a mob boss, or a small-time one, he’s a surprisingly easy man to sidle up to. But it seemed like someone had been giving him shit earlier. If I had to guess, I’d say a hit was made recently and the darker is worried about it cause the other’s ain’t owning up. But this is all subtext, yeah? We talked ‘business’.” Aiber makes air quotes and steals a bite of B’s omelette, scooping up the melted cheese, while B and L exchange a glance.

“I did snatch some text though, while he was flipping through the paperwork,” Aiber produces a slick printed invitation, “He was hiding this one in his main desk drawer. Thought to lock it, but popping it was far too easy.”

_Black Light, White Tie_ [do not edit or repost]

He slides it across the wood of the table into B’s outstretched hand, _Saturday at the Bellagio, huh?_ B grins across the table at Lawliet, “Pharmaceutical benefit yet. Looks like we’re going out this weekend.”

* * *

 

 

Lawliet feels out the pulse of Beyond’s interactions with Aiber: former (mostly) enemies, occasional ‘business’ associates, one-time lovers… as in one time, perhaps two, and likely encouraged along by the smeary glaze of liquor and boredom.

When Aiber helps himself to B’s food, L widens his eyes at B from across the rim of his coffee mug, one-hundred percent aware that B has no special regard for Aiber, despite what the flirty banter might otherwise suggest. If there’s anything to be jealous of, it’s the casual ease between them, a fearless familiarity that L once knew very well and has never forgot, though he didn’t think he’d ever actually long for it again.

And yet there it is, making him feel like he’s swallowed his coffee too fast, the acid heat of it spreading in his stomach. Some unexpected longing.

Another bite of french toast and it’s gone, almost as if it weren’t there to begin with. L’s nearly bored by his own emotional efficiency and tidiness.

“Looks like we’re going out this weekend.” B’s smile is bright with genuine excitement as he extends the invitation to L.

“Arcardia Pharmaceutical Research Foundation?” He traces the elegant lettering with a sticky finger and presses B with a look. Arcadia Pharma is the domain of the Fredericks brothers. “This looks like a goldmine of an opportunity, and not just for you to dress up in your finest.”

Aiber laughs at that for some reason, and L stares up at him without blinking until he takes notice and trails off.

“Danny Athens…” L continues, tucking his thumb between his lip. “He sings that treacly love ballad from the 70s, doesn’t he? You remember?” It’s a rhetorical question; L knows B would never forget one of A’s favorite songs.

 _Starlight Serenade_ , his memory supplies, even as he hold B’s gaze. _I remember her, too._

* * *

 

B would almost laugh at L’s subtle jealousy if it didn’t surprise him so much. But there it is, in the wide-eyed stare and the irritated way he presses his sugared fingertips into the tabletop.

 _“He sings that treacly love ballad from the 70s, doesn’t he? You remember?”_ the tune slides into the black and white keys of B’s mind before he can blink, drawing a tightness in his heart like piano-wire. He’d laughed and danced with A once, to this song. _I hadn’t known she knew how to dance_ . There were always so many layers to her waltz with truth and reality. _She gave me her honesty sometimes, though._

 _Or maybe that’s what she wanted me to believe_. B shakes himself out of his reverie and nods seriously at Lawliet’s gaze.

“Am I missing something here?” Aiber waves a hand between the two of them, “You two gone to Mars or something?”

“It’s nothing,” B gives a twist of his lip to Aiber, who, for all of his lack of tact, has since been trained when to drop a subject. B stands up, “Thanks for this. Did it hold your interest alright?”

“Got more than a few leads of my own for ‘business’, put it that way.”

“Well they’re all yours once we take ‘em down, but I’d steer clear unless you want to get caught in the crossfire. Not sure how deep this one goes.”

“I know how you work.” Aiber smiles wryly, and B can’t help but give him a grin back, despite the piano-and-saxophone melody haunting his mind. He tilts his head towards the door, and Aiber catches the drift.

“I’ll see myself out. Catcha on the flip-side ‘ _Ryu’_.” B flips him the bird just before he slams the door.

* * *

 

Once Aiber leaves, L starts stacking dishes and mugs back onto the room service cart, pouring one last glass of orange juice and putted it aside to sip on later.

“He proved himself useful,” he says of Aiber, nodding at the gala invitation, and B gives a loose shrug and drains the rest of his coffee.

L starts to reach for the phone, intending to call Q for a list of everyone involved with Arcadia Pharmaceuticals, but B bounds from his chair and is at the desk in a flash, snatching the phone receiver from L’s grip and lowering it back to the cradle.

“Aren’t you tired?” B searches L’s face long enough for L to know that his fatigue must be showing, even if he’s beyond the point of being able to feel it.

“I suppose this is your way of telling me I look like I need to sleep?” He rubs his fingers together restlessly, wanting to scribble things down, tap out his thoughts against a table top. “I really don’t feel as if I could.”

L rubs his fingers against the top of his thighs this time, leaning against the desk. “Do you remember the words to the song, though?” He hums to himself, badly, remembering how A mouthed it to herself whenever it came on the radio. “That’s the tune, right? But the lyrics – I only remember the one about dancing under the Milky Way.” He gives B a meaningful frown. “I’m not sure if she really liked the song, or only said she did.”

* * *

 

“Yeah, that’s more or less it.” B stares doubtfully at the black marks under Lawliet’s eyes, remembers the casual way he used to think about kissing them. It’s more of an echo of desire than a hunger, now.  “Try lying down, first.”

Lawliet gives him an equally doubtful glance but takes the pages wordlessly as B clears out a space on the bed. He folds into himself, looking strange and birdlike with his eyes wide shut. B sits on the other side of the bed, “Look, I’ll wake you before we have to go for the stakeout.” Lawliet relaxes in the shoulders a fraction of an inch.

“The song?”

“I think I can remember the words,” B’s voice is husky from years of nicotine smoke, but he can hold the tune. It’s a slow, lazy Jazz vibe, with a quarter-time skip. When he closes his eyes, he can picture A playing the piano. She’d said once that she would have liked to.

_When evening falls and stars are light, my dear_

_You’ll catch me by the window pane_

_The sky is clear, the moon is bright, my dear_

_When I sing to you again._

 

_Though there may be heavens above to part us_

_Though there may be endless day_

_We’ll always have the night within our heart, love_

_Dancing under the Milky Way_

He hesitates on the words for the next verse, “I’m not sure if she did like it, but it meant something to her. You can’t hide something like that. Not really.”

B glances down, but Lawliet is already asleep, or something like it. B shakes his head and pulls the blanket over top of Lawliet’s thin frame. The red letters of _L Lawliet_ float above his head, and B sits on the cheap mattress, thinking about another name and the girl whose number was up too soon.

_A’s Song_ [do not edit or repost]

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 4: May 14-15 1998

**May 14 1998 [night]**

Lawliet gets four, maybe five, hours of thin, unsatisfying sleep, fully absent of dreams. In some ways, it’s worse than no sleep at all. But it’s dark outside when he finally rolls off the bed, and B’s at the desk studying a map for a place where they can stash a getaway car, humming “Starlight Serenade” under his breath.

L lurches to the bathroom and takes a shower to clear his head. He brushes and flosses his teeth, shaves what little he has to, and does what he must to get himself in order. Dextroamphetamine tablets, aspirin, water.

He comes out with a thin robe wrapped around his shoulders when a knock sounds at the hotel room door. “That’s probably Q’s courier,” he says, waving at B to sit back down. Out in the hallway stands a man whose face betrays no questions or interest. “Pinenut,” L recites, and the man passes him a black duffel bag, gives a sharp nod, and turns down the hallway.

“I had Q research the airport staff. They have a small maintenance crew that works nights: two or three mechanics, an operations manager, a cargo loader, two janitors,” He explains to B as he heaves the bag onto one of the beds. “There’s no records on the janitors so they’re probably undocumented workers.” Zipping open the bag reveals two pairs of navy-blue coveralls, heavy work boots, and replica Sand Valley airport employment badges.

L believes in keeping backup close by. Before he left London for Vegas, he instructed Q to stick close to the Los Angeles area, precisely for situations like this one.

Waving one of the badges at B, L lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and leans against the duffel. “If we run into the real janitors, we may have to drag them out of the picture. Do you have any tranquilizers, or know where we can get some?”

* * *

 

“Mhm, mhm. I have a supplier for sux and ether, but I think I’ve got enough on-hand from the last case that I won’t need to call her in, this time,” B rustles through his things to extract three syringes and a tightly sealed plastic bottle. When he turns around, Lawliet has stripped to the white of his skin, his vertebrae a perfect line next to the wings of his shoulder blades.

He’s still got a damn good ass, too. _Apparently some things haven’t changed._

B catches sight of the childhood scar on Lawliet’s hip, and the slow, sharp longing grabs him by the throat. It’s then that Lawliet turns to toss him the other coveralls, and catches him in the eyes. B gives him an exaggerated once over, just to see if it’ll make him squirm, then winks and forces a smile.

“Back to business, right?” _Keep it that way. We’re not going back to five years ago. We’re not._

When they’re both dressed and ready to leave, B notices the uncharacteristic warmth radiating off of Lawliet, the fact that his pupils have expanded to round circles that match his sharp movement. The black of them takes B by surprise, thinking back to a case with a friend that could have been as close as Aiber. The memory of the heart attack that killed him causes his own to jump up several beats per minute.

 _Well shit. Taken that one a step further, haven’t you, Lawliet?_ B had hoped the pills had been only the kids shit, or better yet, just for the headaches.

L notices him staring, gives him a sharp, questioning look. He opens his mouth to say something.

“Let’s go.” is what comes out.

They get a car from a rental junket B knows well, where the seats are always a little bit stained, and the records are kept in a stacked mass in a filing cabinet that’s easily pickpocketed. The black Crown Victoria is a tough nut, anyways, and can take a few hits with a good speed.

It’s a slow drive out of town to the airport. The city hums with the rhythm of evening, and it relaxes B. These kind of hits, hidden in plain sight and evidence only, have never been quite his cup of tea. A was much smoother at it.

He reaches his arm absently to rest on the passenger’s seat, and is almost surprised at the shoulder he grazes there. Too many nights riding alone. He keeps his arm there, though, knowing Lawliet won’t mind. Then he becomes aware of another rhythm.

 _Christ,_ he thinks, and goes to speak, “Lawliet, I can feel your heartbeat from back here.”

* * *

 

Lawliet is absorbed in the white lines of the highway, the blur of neon that sends colored patterns through the windows. The shocks on the car are worn enough to make the vehicle churn over every dip, but the engine sounds as if it has a few strong horses under the hood. The pressure of B’s arm against his shoulder is familiar. Hot. B always seems to run a few degrees warmer than other humans. Or maybe it’s that L runs a few degrees cold. He’s been told as much.

_“Lawliet, I can feel your heartbeat from back here.”_

L hears the words and judges them as either complaint or concern, with the latter more likely. B’s history and thoughts on drugs are complicated, L knows, though he also knows that this concern isn’t the moralizing sort. Not from B.

L sighs and rolls his neck from side to side. He could explain that the ‘phet is prescription-grade, that he’s studied the different dosages and follows the same guidelines that the military uses when they dose pilots before long missions, that he knows how to ween himself back off, when the time comes. He could explain, but L also knows that all his careful precautions could crumble, under the right circumstances. He may be clever and cautious, but his body and its various mechanisms still undeniably human.

He rolls his head against B’s arm, instead. “Is that so bad?” He asks, the words light, practically leaking from his lips. “Better than not feeling anything at all.”

* * *

 

B freezes under L’s touch, the words reverberating under him as if Lawliet had plucked him out of his thoughts five years ago. Anger flares up within him, _isn’t it just like Lawliet to prefer this cheap thrill over emotion? Over everything_.

“If that’s what you want,” B says slowly, trying not to betray himself. _It’s nothing you wanted before, but isn’t that what got us here?_

 _But isn’t it just this that makes Lawliet everything that he is?_ B doesn’t know.

All the small, subtle things that B had spent years concluding were just manipulation are as much a part of Lawliet, of their interactions as they’ve always been. _Pushing boundaries. Drawing lines. Making challenges_ . _Aren’t these the things about you that I couldn’t manage?_

 _Maybe not anymore_ . It’s five years gone, five years different, and B’s gut made up his mind several hours ago that he isn’t going to let this chance slip away. _I’ll listen to everything you’re trying not to tell me. But this time, I won’t make it about me._

Lawliet isn’t moving, though, his sinuous shoulder firm against B’s arm. He runs a finger along the jackrabbit pulse of Lawliet’s neck, settling for the words he would have used so many years ago, but in a completely different context, “I trust you.”

* * *

 

Phantom words in L’s ears, a phantom finger against his neck. It’s hard to know which ghost has the stronger presence, especially while riding a stalled re-uptake of dopamine, and if L isn’t careful he might start to associate the sensation with B himself.  B and his world of hands-on, hard-boiled danger – and it turns out L remembered right, B really does seem to run a few degrees warmer than anyone else.

And before he gives himself time and space to wonder why that is, why B is the only person who’s physical temperature is permanently recorded in his memory, B murmurs _“I trust you.”_ Words L hasn’t heard for years, though B used to recite them almost desperately, back when L was one of the only reliable lenses B had for glimpsing reality.

“Thanks,” L says softly. He deserves no one’s trust, probably, but greatly depends on it just the same. “I’ll do what I can not to lose it.” It’s not a lie, either. Not right now, anyway, and he even reaches up to squeeze B’s fingers, like half of a handshake. More than a half of a promise, even.

B, quiet, steers the car onto a frontage road that eventually turns away from the highway, passing a few industrial buildings before heading into a stretch of desert that’s rendered stark and sketchy under the moonlight. Not far off, L can make out the white and blue of the airport’s runway lights, pointing away from Vegas.

* * *

 

It’s too soon when B slides his arm off of Lawliet’s shoulder, but he tries to memorize the feeling, the subtle comfort that’s slipped between them before he lets go. _It’s a memory. We’ve had this before._ He steals a glance at Lawliet, and sees the barest echo of the same thoughts etched on his cheekbones.

B wishes he could read memories in Lawliet’s frown-lines for hours, but there’s a plane full of humans that could become meat, and stopping that seems only slightly more pressing right now.

They stride in step into the hangar near the back. From the layout it’s simple enough to find the maintenance closet, but as they’re grabbing the mops and gear, L with the slightest hint of distaste, and B almost smiling at it, footsteps sound in the hall behind them. Heavy boots. Bounce in the step.

“Hey, ya’ll are early coming in tonight,” the operations manager, who B recognises from the profiles, claps them on the shoulder, then seems to realize they aren’t the usual pair,“Oh, new boys, huh?”

“Something like that.” B says, shrugging off his arm, “We’re checking up, but nothing you need to worry about.”

“Checking up? Ah yeah, tonight’s one of–” the words die in the man’s throat as B gives him a sharp, dangerous look. _Too easy, with these easygoing types. They weren’t cut out for the mob._

“The regulars are doing other business for the night,” B puts an extra hint of gravel into his voice. Lawliet falls in step, giving the man a beady-eyed stare, “Mr. Fredericks said he wanted his office cleaned by someone he can trust.”

The manager nods slowly, catching the underwire of danger that B exudes; just enough to suggest that arguing would get the man in a lot of trouble, “I’ll get you the keys.”

The office is tucked into a corner of the private airport’s small lobby. Bright hardwood and beautiful teak-wood furniture makes the case for the private cleaning even stronger. B nods his dismissal and closes the door behind the operations manager. _That went well. For now._

“Cameras?” B murmurs under his breath as they get to mopping. L shakes his head, gesturing to the one in the hall. Seems the room is clean. Still, they’re thorough in their show of dusting before B feels up the filing cabinet and turns to Lawliet.

“Locks are easy to pick, though we might also wanna get into this,” B lifts a shitty Caravaggio reproduction to reveal a wall safe in behind. My hand is still a little unsteady, used to bring a man in for this kind of job, “You got a camera for this shit?”

* * *

 

Lawliet kneels down on the industrial office carpet and unrolls his small pouch of tools, selecting a Minox digital camera not much bigger than a cigarette lighter, then passing it with gloved fingers over to B.

“Here, why don’t you get started on the file cabinets? I’ll have a look at the safe.“

A few turns of safe’s combination lock and L identifies the tell-tale clicks of false tumblers, an anti-theft deterrent. It doesn’t make manipulating the safe impossible, but a certainly a great deal harder. It will take L a lot of time and some special tools to get it open, neither of which they have.

“The safe’s a no-go,” L announces to B’s nod. He moves on to the office phone, instead, unscrewing the receiver and planting a bug that blends in with the wiring so well that it should go unnoticed even if one of the Fredericks brothers goes looking for it. Nothing else on the desk is particularly useful, and L’s especially let down that they’re either too cautious or too luddite to keep a computer anywhere.

There’s an array of small framed photographs arranged on the desktop that catches his eye, though, and while B rifles through the filing cabinets L picks the photos up, one at a time. The first features a ruddy-faced man standing on a golf course with a woman who looks like she might be a former Vegas showgirl: plastic smile, big breasts, even bigger hair. The second is a photograph at Caesar’s Palace, the same ruddy-faced man shaking hands with none other than Danny Athens himself. L only recognizes him thanks to his infamous golden pompadour and lavender tuxedo. L tilts the photograph in the dim light and sees that it’s even been signed: _To Saul - I owe you big, buddy! - Danny Athens_

L crouches on the desk chair and sucks on the tip of his thumb. He seems to recall that Danny Athens had suffered some health problems that sent him into early retirement in the first half of the 90s – maybe it was something A had told L in passing, and the information had magically lodged itself in his memory despite L deeming it unimportant. But yes, Danny Athens had gone into early retirement, then made a roaring comeback sometime after 1995. Of this, L is certain.

“Did you know that Saul Fredericks and Danny Athens are personal friends?” L asks, stretching the photograph in B’s direction. “And Danny looks good after all those health scares. I wonder if his rejuvenation is due to something a little more involved than a face-lift.”

* * *

 

“Looks like we definitely have to go to that party, then.” B murmurs, raking his eyes over the showy photograph, “I’m guessing whoever’s at the top of this chain would know the bigwigs personally.”

“Maybe we can get Athens along and get him to give us details. He looks like the type who’d crack under the right knife. Me, I’d bet on a new liver.” B rifles through the drawers with leather gloves of his own. Most of it is bills of sale, records of planes, health records. B hesitates on the Health Records cabinet.

_Health Records_ [do not edit or repost]

“Now I don’t know if most airports keep blood typing information on their passengers, but most certainly don’t keep tissue types.” the ledger is long. B lays out the pages one by one, snapping photographs. The names on the list are certainly fake, but the ‘passenger numbers’. Well, if they could match that up to the people on the chopping block, they’d be well on their way.

A few more minutes of searching doesn’t reveal anything of interest. “I’d bet money on the ledger for the names and locations being in the safe. But there might also be a pattern in the numbers– some kind of match to names or locations.”

Echoing, quick footsteps in the hallway cause them both to flinch. B replaces the pages in order with a calculated efficiency. He glances over at Lawliet, preparing for a fight, and Lawliet nods slowly, rubbing a rag into the table in a staged manner.

After a tense moment, the heavy boots pass by. B breathes a sigh of relief. _This is a tight job. Getting caught in here– well it might mean a firefight we’re both unprepared for._

“Make sure to polish those frames, do the job right,” he whispers, “We better get back to the rest of the ‘cleaning’. With luck we might spot the plane touching down.”

* * *

L frowns mildly as he wipes non-existent fingerprints off the glass, then rearranges the frames back into the precise formation that he found them in. Yanking his rag away with unnecessary flourish, he nearly knocks over a stack of rainbow-colored post-it-note pads, all of them bearing the phone number for _Surgical Aesthetics of Las Vegas_.

 _Plastic surgery clinic?_ he wonders, memorizing the name of the business. It could be where the donor transplants take place.

No more footsteps come from the hallway, but L does catch the rumble of a vehicle out on the tarmac, and when it passes he lifts back the heavy curtains and takes quick stock of what he sees out the window.

“There’s a truck headed for the hanger on the opposite side of the building,” L says in a low voice, and B pockets the Minox camera and gathers up his cleaning gear.

L does the same, wrapping up his tool pouch and shoving his mop back into its bucket. He figures they have maybe fifteen minutes until the plane is due, and keeps on B’s heels as they return to the maintenance closet and stash their gear back inside.

L keeps a single broom on hand just in case they bump into someone roaming the lobby, but the glass-walled room is quiet, dim of everything except faint starlight and the glow of a Coke machine. Instead of the hangars being separated from the lobby area, they’re all connected by large, windowless maintenance corridors, a rather unusual feature, as far as L knows. As he and B take the journey to the hangar at a deliberately casual pace, it occurs to him that the airport may have in fact been build and designed with this special cargo in mind. If that’s the case, the plane will probably be taxied directly into the hangar after it lands, the doors closed behind it so that the cargo – the people –  can be unloaded out of sight.

If he and B are lucky, they can climb up onto to the rafters and shimmy out on the catwalk while the plane is in the process of being taxied off the runway. A bird’s-eye view of the action, so to speak, though they’ll be easy targets if they’re spotted.

When they reach the end of the corridor L leans the broom against a wall and pulls B in by the shoulder, spilling out his plan in a low whisper.

“What do you think?” he says into B’s ear. “Got a better approach in mind?”

* * *

**May 15 1998 [very early morning]**

_“What do you think? Got a better approach in mind?”_ Lawliet’s voice is hot and urgent in his ear, picking up his adrenaline another two notches. It’s just as well. B has always worked better under pressure.

“That’s insane, but probably the best we’ve got. S’what I would have done. People don’t tend to look up– as for being targets, well.” B glances towards entrance to the hangar doubtfully, “If we’re caught, I don’t think they’ll give us any quarter no matter where we are. These people have a long reach. I’m sure they’ve killed for less than this to keep this operation going. We’ll have to keep out of sight.”

They make it to the heavy door of the hangar. _Three second rule_ , B remembers from A’s advice. Three seconds to take in _everything_ about a room; exits, security,

 _Three seconds is generous_ , she would have said. B opens the door, just a crack.

The space is vast, full of sharp, industrial structure. Easily large enough for the plane that’s visible at the end of a long runway. There are around twenty men, four at the entrance and the others scattered across the room, but for the moment, they’re all focused on the arrival. _Lucky for us._

B scans the room, locating a stack of two shipping containers that they ought to be able to slip behind. There’s enough shadow in any case. In the last second he starts to move, Lawliet in step with him, knowing where to go.

They make it behind the containers in a shuffle that turns into a sprint of heartbeat length as soon as they’re out of sight. Lawliet takes to the thick steel of the criss-cross structure just as naturally as he would have with tree branches, Roger’s tiny face glaring at them from below. As if falling from a tree was more of a risk than getting shot in the London streets.

B pulls himself up and out of memory a moment later. When they reach the top of the shipping containers, they redouble their speed. The catwalk has a set of girders underneath, which is just as well since at least one maintenance worker is manning the controls up top. Lawliet tucks himself into the steel nest neatly, offering a hand to B to pull himself up.

In another time, he wouldn’t have taken it, seeing it as a challenge or a personal insult. It lends him a half a second of speed though, and a comfortable jolt of familiarity. They shimmy forward to a perfect view. B passes forward the camera with careful hands.

The plane is slow in entering the room, sleek and white with frost from the evening sky. As Lawliet expected, the heavy doors seal behind it. _At least we shouldn’t have to worry about being caught on camera._ After a moment the three men in clean pressed-suits that B doesn’t recognize step forward. The door to the plane opens slowly, revealing a bald, tanned and brutal looking man dressed in smart shorts and a loose white shirt.

He glances back at Lawliet and can tell they’re thinking the exact same thing: _Charlie Brown_.

_Touchdown_ [do not edit or repost]

 

 

 

 

> * * *

With one arm slung around a girder, L leans out just far enough to get in some good shots, his thigh pressed securely against B’s. He snaps the men in their official-looking suits, the maintenance workers, and Charlie Brown – _almost_. Before L can capture the man, he walks around some equipment and out of L’s cross-hairs.

L sends a glance B’s way, lifting his eyebrows and giving a subtle nod to his arm. Catching on, B nods and takes firm hold of L’s forearm so that he can lean out and down a bit further, his movements achingly slow so as to not snare anyone’s attention. He manages to get a few clear shots of Charlie Brown’s face and profile before B gives him a tug upright.

The plane is a Gulfstream G-IV, L thinks, which means it can carry around 15 passengers. When the airstair opens one of the suited men darts up the steps, a leather folder in hand, and disappears for a few minutes, giving L long enough to wonder how they might be able to get their hands on that folder. When the man comes back down the steps, he’s trailed by a line of male and female passengers, most of them young – late twenties at most – and even one or two who look closer to their mid-teens. They carry tote bags and battered suitcases, looking tired and travel-worn, but otherwise happy and well-cared for.

 _They think they’ve just touched down on the land of opportunity,_ L thinks, frowning.

And then the man in the suit passes the leather folder to Charlie Brown, who flips it open and starts scanning the paperwork tucked inside.

L holds his arm still, waiting for the nudge that he knows B is about to give him.

* * *

B catches L’s eye. _I know who our target is for the night._ They keep still as ‘Charlie Brown’, alias Alistair Chambers hands each of the passengers a small package, much like a passport. _False documentation? They are thorough here._ Lawliet snaps a picture, but it’s a bit far away. _That’s another thing we should be getting our hands on_.

His thoughts wander back to the bright-eyed girl in the nail salon. _Phuong._ _I bet she’d show us hers if I asked._ _I wonder how close she is to ‘Charlie Brown’_. From the easily possessive way he smiles at some of the girls, B can tell his charm extends further than charisma. He leans into Lawliet.

“Let’s trail him. If we can get hands on that folder, great. If not, at least we’ll know where to send the search warrant,” B turns back to the scene, “Although we’ll have to _nail_ them before we send in anything like that.”

The group is being handed small cards. Some of them nod excitedly when they receive them. The gratitude is obvious from a distance and it almost makes B queasy how much they trust this man. One of the girls near the end, young and pretty, receives her card and lets out a low moan.

“Dancer…? I cannot…I told you that I am not for eyes.”

“You all have a place here, you take the place I give you.” Alistair Chambers does _not_ look like a charming comic character now. The girl takes a step back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are.” he sneers. The other passengers avoid looking at her. _He turns them against each other_. They look uncomfortable, though.

A woman at the end who looks as if she’d rather see anything but this glances up for a moment and yells, her dark eyes fixed directly at B. Quick as a viper B pulls Lawliet’s arm, sliding them in behind a radiator underneath the catwalk, holding by the skin and nails of his fingers. It’s a bare wonder they manage to fit themselves together behind it, a tight arrangement of limbs and too-quick pulses.

“What?” the gruff voice with a slight Southern accent is bound to come from Charlie Brown.

“I thought I saw someone.” the confusion is barely audible, but B keeps pressed to Lawliet’s side, _we can’t do a firefight, we can’t we can’t_ , “I don’t think…it was anything.”

B exhales and feels Lawliet relax beside him. Lawliet pulls out a small mirror and they watch the line of newcomers file out to meet their fate. A moment later, the hangar doors open again, and the maintenance worker exits the catwalk. The two of them wait for a beat, then Lawliet squeezes his hand and they pull themselves on top, already striding at top speed.

“We’re going to want to talk to whoever didn’t call us out,” B whispers to Lawliet, “But for now– do you think we can catch up with Charlie Brown?”

_Charlie Brown_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

“We’ll have to try,” L says, his jaw clenched in grim determination.

They make their way back down the maintenance corridor to the lobby, careful to wait and look through a crack in the door, sweeping the room to make sure that it’s clear of people.

The lobby windows offer an ample view of the mostly-empty but moderately-lit parking lot, and B ducks behind one of the large indoor plants positioned near the glass, motioning for L to follow. L drops to a crouch and tucks himself against B’s torso, fitting himself there neat and tidy with scarcely a thought. All the ease of that old muscle memory.

A small, touristy-looking shuttle bus idles near the parking lot’s exit, waiting to carry the trafficked humans off to their new lives. Charlie Brown and two of the suited men engage in a serious-looking discussion nearby, with Charlie – _Chambers_ , L reminds himself – pausing to put the leather folder on the hood of a Range Rover while he checks something on his mobile phone.

“Must be his car,” B murmurs, the words ruffling L’s hair.

L watches the man slip the phone back into his pocket and pick the folder up again. “If we can make it to the Crown Victoria before he leaves, we can follow him out of here.”

They manage to do just that – but only after nearly bumping into the real maintenance workers, showing up for their after black-hours shift. L and B duck out a back exit just before they’re glimpsed, and make a dash for the getaway car, hidden in a nearby clutch of spiky desert bushes.

B knows how to tail someone, that’s for sure. When Chambers’ Range Rover roars down the road, he waits until the tail lights shrink to pin-pricks, then hits the gas with the headlights off, navigating the dark ribbon of road with steady hands. He flips the lights on when they’re back in traffic and headed into town, keeping several cars back from Chambers but never letting him out of sight.

They don’t stop until they follow him all the way to the other side of the strip and into a sharp neighborhood with retro, mid-century houses. The Rover disappears into the garage of one of the more impressive homes, and B circles around the block before parking across the street behind someone’s motorboat.

L pivots toward B, only just now realizing that his fingers are tightly curled into the car’s vinyl upholstery, his foot tapping a mile a minute against the floor mat.

“Got any cards?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows at B. “If we’re gonna keep lookout until it’s safe to break in, we’ll need a way to pass the time.”

* * *

 B reaches into the folds of the coveralls to his jacket pockets. The deck, like a good butterfly knife or a packet of jam, can be unexpectedly necessary in a number of scenarios. B has even used them effectively as a weapon once or twice. He deals two stacks for Texas Hold ‘em, keeping an eye on the house.

“Strip poker?” He winks roguishly and Lawliet rolls his eyes, but takes the other stack.

B examines his hand. Queen and ten of diamonds, not bad odds, “I’ll bet two, or my coveralls because I hope to lose those. They won’t do us any favours for the break-in.”

The street lights cast ghoulish shadows against the cat that skitters across the street. Lawliet almost twitches when it passes into their vision, foot skittering out of time. His hands are a little too tight on the cards. B checks his watch. Two am. It’ll be a long stakeout. _But Lawliet thinks he can run on nothing, huh? And maybe he does._ He inclines his head towards Lawliet’s hand,  “You keeping an eye on that?”

* * *

L presses the cards to his chest, craning his head to look out at the street, damp and shiny from late-night sprinklers.

 _“You keeping an eye on that?”_ Casual, but B’s words bore through L’s skull like a drill.

“Well enough so you don’t have to,” he flips back, fingers fanning out his hole cards: Jack of clubs and ten of spades. B’s words are an opportunity, L knows, and also a trap: bringing up the drugs during easy conversation when they just happen to be stuck in a car together. He lifts his eyebrows at B. _There’s nothing to confess here._

But he doesn’t say that aloud – instead he sets his feet on the edge of the seat and wiggles his toes inside his sneakers. “I bet two, or my shoes. I’ve been planning to remove them anyway.”

He shifts, tucking himself into the corner where the seat meets the door. “Also, I didn’t wear anything under my coveralls,” he admits, meeting B’s gaze without any awareness of the innuendo until their eyes clap together and he glimpses a twitch at the corner of B’s mouth.

It could be annoyance. It could be something else.

But Vegas is a betting town, and if L were wagering on whether he and B end up in bed together again – or in a back seat – he’d calculate the likelihood at sixty percent. Seventy if they keep getting stuck alone together, looking for ways to pass the time in a long stretch. Habits have a way of roaring back that way.

L watches as B takes in a deep breath and looks to one side, his profile a muted silhouette against the hard glow of the streetlights, his lips pursing around an unlit cigarette and –

Seventy-two.

* * *

 _“Also, I didn’t wear anything under my coveralls.”_ He catches Lawliet’s eye, the image of Lawliet’s naked bones in the lamplight, crushed against the door of the Crown Vic flashing through his eyes. His lips twitch from the effort of remaining still, but his entire body is thrumming with energy for a moment.

 _Good god, Lawliet._ He always said these things so _casually_ , and then a moment later catches the meaning. _This is probably why you’re shit at disguise._

Five years ago, he would have thrown the cards right now, crawled his hands into Lawliet’s jacket and had him gasping without a second thought. B has a gift for speed, and he remembers exactly which curves and bones of Lawliet’s skin make him shiver, remembers the obscene talent in Lawliet’s tongue down his neck.

It paints a pretty picture.

He entertains the thought for a moment, taking out a cigarette to distract him before things get out of hand. He chews on it aggressively as he lays the flop down. Two of diamonds, Jack of spades, four of diamonds. Not terrible odds, but not great. Still, Lawliet doesn’t have much to barter with.

And B has always enjoyed a good bluff.

B sucks at the unlit cigarette, “Jacket, jeans and shirt for five. Sound fair?”

* * *

_Eighty-five percent._

This atmosphere – it’s on him like a recurring dream. What started out as a playful joke has taken a turn for the taut and serious, and L knows that B won’t utter any words of surprise if L rids him of the jacket, jeans, and shirt right now, this very minute.

Even as L fiddles with the edges of his cards, the memories of B half-naked, the mess of their limbs tangling together, the fevered lack of shame they felt in exploring every part of each other, inside and out – they all bounce around behind his eyes like a film reel he’s not sure he should look at.

But apparently, eighty-five percent of him wants to look, helped along by the little soldiers he swallowed down a few hours ago.

“Sounds fair,” L says, smile soft around the ball of his thumb, his shoes squeaking a few inches across the vinyl upholstery.

 _He’s going to want more_ , some inner voice cautions, threatening to knife the atmosphere half. And maybe that’s what L should do. Let the moment be severed. Forgotten. Playing oblivious has always been a big feature of his wheelhouse.

L remembers his hand just as the garage door to Chambers’ house roars open, the lights flooding the driveway and sending both L and B into an instinctive crouch, the cards fluttering from L’s fingers to the floor mats below.

* * *

Lawliet’s hand scatters, and B is at the wheel as soon the Chambers car makes an abrupt exit, turning left at the second intersection. B starts the car a beat later, pulling onto a parallel street and meeting up with the sleek violet muscle car a moment before. _Looks like he’s going for stealth this time._

He slides his hand in the cup holder and keeps a slow pace, still feeling the jump of his heart in his chest. _All’s well that ends well there, I suppose_. Sex with Lawliet itself had always felt as natural as breathing, nine times out of ten, but once in a blue moon it’s cataclysmic. B isn’t sure whether or not they’ll survive another storm like that.

 _But god knows, I want to know_. Now is not the time or the night, however. The streetlights flicker by as Chambers drives a quick, but roundabout route, landing near Canyon Gate Country Club. B has to walk the knife edge between too far to follow and too close not to be noticed.

The neighbourhood they land in is a different level of ostentatious than Chambers’ – a lot more exaggerated in size and scope. B smirks at the bronze fountains lit up by floodlights on the gated homes. _Exactly the kind of place a junket like this one would look for customers._

B stashes the car a block north of where Chambers is parked, at a sleek, modern-looking clinic bearing the name _Surgical Aesthetics of Las Vegas_. It’s dark inside. B pulls Lawliet behind a bush as they get close. Chambers is in and out in a flash, looking twice around him. Then he gets back in the car and vanishes into the dawning night.

“Looks like we picked the right night on several counts,” B whispers, putting a hand on his weaponry, “You ready to go in?”

* * *

 

Crouched behind a bush with B breathing down his back, Lawliet considers the opportunity before them. He and B could wait until morning, walk into the lobby of _Surgical Aesthetics of Las Vegas_ looking for pamphlets on breast enhancement, a gift for the girlfriends they don’t have, but there will be staff and patients to dodge, too many people to show their faces to. Better to take a stab now, but be careful about it.

He makes a rough estimate of the layout by counting the size and shapes of the windows, then spots the surveillance camera mounted high over the front door. There will be more inside, for sure. A black SUV is parked in the side lot, probably belonging to a security guard who walks the perimeter, both inside and out. If they wait for him to take his outside beat, they can neutralize him away from the camera at the entrance. Then, when that’s done, they can neutralize the camera, use the guard’s keys to get inside.

He whispers the plan to B. “Prep a syringe. Also, do you have any more of that jam on you?” He points at the surveillance cam. “We’ll need it to smear the lenses.”

B nods, reaching into his coveralls for the gear. He passes the jam packets first, which L tucks away, then his fingers, fast and nimble, fill a syringe with suxamethonium chloride. He points the glittering needle up and holds it at the ready when he’s finished. They stay hidden for ten or fifteen long minutes, during which L feels a cramp flare down his calf and hears what he thinks are coyotes, howling in the distance. From the nearby golf course, probably. Then, the swiffing sound of a door opening breaks the silence, and an armed, uniformed guard – large and well-built – ambles down the clinic’s front walk, appearing relaxed but fairly alert, a travel mug gripped in his hand.

 _Can’t reach that fast for your gun if you’re sipping coffee_ , L thinks, and feels B tense behind him, ready for what comes next.

* * *

The last piece of gear is a grey bandana over the face. Crude, but it achieves the sense of drama that a crime would demand. Lawliet takes it grudgingly just before their window of opportunity arises.

When the guard goes for a swig of his coffee, B moves forward first, faster, knocks the scalding liquid into the man’s face. With his attention focused on B, the guard doesn’t have a moment to react to Lawliet’s sharp jab in his thigh. He lurches forward in short, brutish movements, reaching for a pager which Lawliet knocks to the ground.

The guard’s movements slow like a strange trainwreck as the paralysis sets in– one moment he’s swinging his fist towards B’s gut, the next his arm is dead weight in front of him, his face a petrification of shock and anger. When he falls, the sound is heavy against the quiet of the night.

Lawliet is at his side to slide in the ether next, itching at the face coverings impatiently.  When the guard loses consciousness, B lifts him behind the dumpster, while Lawliet lifts the keys. He loads a second round of the sux and ether before Lawliet has to ask.

“I’ll get the next one, you get the camera,” He pulls the bandana over his face, and they move forward.

 _Looks like we’re in._ L uses a mirror to look around the crack of the door opening, locating the cameras. No one is present, yet. They move in sync, Lawliet towards the base of the camera, B lifting him up seamlessly to reach the lens. _Old rhythms, an old partnership_. They move forward in the halls quietly. Most of the rooms are for surgery. In each of these, B ransacks the supply of painkillers.

“We need to make this look like something else. I’m sure they already know that we’re getting close, but we can’t make them feel like they need to cut and run.” B states, jamming the drugs in his pocket like a proper addict. Lawliet nods seriously.

At the end of the hall, they unlock a room filled with equipment. Some of it is standard – cryogenics devices for liposuction. But there’s a large pile underneath a sheet. B lets out a low whistle when they pull it off, “This is the shit we’re here for.”

Kidney transplant, lung transplant, liver transplant assistance machines, neat in a row like a smoking gun.

* * *

 

L crouches down to examine the equipment, still wrapped in clear plastic from a recent delivery. They’re top of the line machines, with pulsatile perfusion technology, rigid temperature controls, the whole works. They have to cost a mint and then some, and L documents the serial numbers on all three with his Minox camera.

“The transplants must be done somewhere on the premises,” L says to B, keeping his voice low. The guard didn’t have time to radio or page in an SOS, but if he’s on a schedule where he logs a report or checks in every hour, then they’ll have to finish up here as fast as they can. “Some secure area. Let’s circle the premises one more time.”

They whisk down the clean, clinical hallways like a pair of ghosts, finding a door they missed on the first go. It leads to a plush staff break room that smells of recently-brewed coffee, and L spots a door near the back that looks a little too heavy to be for a simple pantry. None of the guard’s keys work, so B takes a few minutes to jimmy the lock, then cracks the door open while L does a pre-check with his mirrors. It’s a stairway leading down into blackness, a security camera hidden in the left corner. L fishes the last jam packet out of his pocket and pulls the nicotine-scented bandana over his mouth, then gives B the signal.

One smeared lens later and they’re down the stairs, which stop abruptly at a set of heavy double doors, banked by a blinking alarm panel.

“Biometric security,” L observes. “We won’t be getting in there.”

He slouches against the wall, defeat and annoyance tugging at him in equal measure.

* * *

B snaps photographs of the biometrics nonetheless, “This is good enough; I’ve bullied police departments into search warrants for much less. Let’s get out before we get caught.”

Every police car that passes them by on the way out of the country club area sets B’s teeth on edge. They’ve got almost enough to go off of right now. Certainly with the evidence they have the could unravel the trafficking ring as it stands. But those medical devices aren’t supplied by the Fredericks Brothers, and B has a sinking feeling if they want to take this all the way to the top, the answers will be at the Bellagio tomorrow.

Still. Not a bad night’s work. He glances at Lawliet, whose face is a mask of irritation, “Hey. We’ve almost got them. Just need to find a few more smoking guns to point our fingers, then, bang.” B cocks his hand gun and quirks his lips at Lawliet. There’s still a slight shake in Lawliet’s fingers, “I’m going to grab some food. Do you need anything?”

* * *

Lawliet’s irritability isn’t from the comedown – that’s still hours off, yet. He just doesn’t like it when something’s out of his reach but yet right there for the taking. He forces himself to take a few long, slow breaths, rewiring the energy bouncing in his brain down through his fingers and feet, the left of which is once again tapping an erratic tattoo against the floor of the Crown Victoria.  

_“Do you need anything?”_

“I’m not hungry,” L mumbles from around the knuckle of his thumb, but the offer for more than just food isn’t lost on him, and he turns to take in B’s questioning glance.

“We should hop hotels this morning. My couriers may have been noted by now, and I wouldn’t mind a room with a bigger bathtub. Maybe even a private hot tub.” L slits his eyes and starts making a mental catalog. “We’re more or less laying low until the party unless something comes up, right?” he asks, and B gives a nod. “I want to schedule some sleep tonight, then.”

He unlatches his seat belt so that he can hoist his feet up onto the seat and slip out of his shoes.

“I’ll need a few things for that. A milkshake, possibly several of them. A hot bath, and a joint rolled with Indica-strain Cannabis.”

It’s dark enough in the car that he misses B’s expression.

* * *

The jolt of surprise through B almost slips his grip on the wheel. He takes a deep breath, willing Lawliet’s matter-of-fact tone to steady him. _Alright, so you’ve planned this at least_. B knew too well that any kind of harmful practice Lawliet tried – and the list of those was long indeed– he did so in a calculated, high-functioning manner.

_But you’re also always the type to let it go too far._

_Still. It seems under control for now_. “We can move up to the Mirage. It’s close to the Bellagio and the rooms are well-kept.”

Lawliet gives barely more than a nod. They cruise around the city, B picking up takeout from a 24-hour In-N-Out Burger, and then slipping in to a poorly disguised ‘Tribal Smoke Shop’ that he’s inclined to get tobacco from, occasionally. They know the type and grade that Lawliet wants. _He’s done his research_.

In the car, drumming his fingers at a traffic light, B thinks about the Lawliet he knew from five years gone, trying to reconcile him with the beautiful, strung-out, cold-eyed man beside him. In many ways, it’s a logical jump that Lawliet would have made, always pushing for a higher success rate, more cases , push through, attack, _attack_.

Then, there’s some part of Lawliet that always believed himself to be invincible. _Sometimes I believe it too_. B forces his eyes on the road, not wanting to read more into the shadows of Lawliet’s eyes, the strain of muscle along his cheekbones. Not wanting to write any words there that don’t exist.

_The Mirage_ [do not edit or repost]

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 5: May 15 1998

**May 15 1998 [morning]**

When they reach the Mirage it’s pushing on six am, and the dawn makes the ostentation of the hotel almost garish. B sets them up in a penthouse, two queen sized beds and a soaking tub with shower. The bright cleanliness of the room is a bit unsettling to B, who prefers hotels like the Nugget. _There’s more workspace here, at least_.

B throws himself down on the white duvet, his jeans leaving a slight dusty outline. _Long night._ Lawliet is sipping the vanilla milkshake with an air of a knife overly sharpened. B folds the paper and plastic bag weed out of his pocket, “I guess I’ll assume you know what to do with this.”

* * *

 

The penthouse suite has what is surely an enviable view, and the rising sun casts enough light to illuminate the crisp finish of the room’s furnishings and decor: glass and dark wood; heavy velvet smoothed by soft, white down. L thinks that he and B probably look like rumpled urchins against such surroundings, but after shucking his shoes he makes no move to change out of his coveralls, which he’s grown to like a bit. They’ve got just the right amount of loose wear.  

_“I guess I’ll assume you know what to do with this.”_

L sucks up a cold lump of vanilla milkshake and takes the cannabis and rolling papers, setting them neatly into a desk drawer for the time being. “Thanks,” he says. “Let me know what I owe you, or you can nick the amount from my bag.” He puts his milkshake to one side and unzips the small satchel that holds all his case notes.

After a few hours of making multiple consultation calls to Watari and Q, chipping away at a few other cases that are barely hanging on to his attention, and finishing a second milkshake the he orders up from room service, L’s focus dissolves enough for him to soak up B’s presence in the room.

B was mostly quiet while he worked, napping a little, reading and taking a shower. That’s just what L noticed, though, as nearly all of his attention was trained on his work-related tasks. Now, though, he’s started to feel keenly aware of B, shifting on the bed, lighting up a cigarette, flipping the pages of his book, and just _looking_ at L. Not that L ever quite catches him directly, but he can feel B’s gaze and the hesitant questions in it, buzzing around him but never quite daring to land.

Yeah, the comedown is starting to nibble at L, his nerves raw with an irritation that has no real source or reason other than tapped dopamine reserves. The milkshake has staved off low-blood sugar and kept him headache-free, at least, but now it’s time to induce actual relaxation.

He gets the baggie from the desk drawer and drops a few buds of cannabis into a small tin bowl that was, not moments ago, holding some spicy-fragranced potpourri. Placing the bowl between his knees and turning his desk chair to face B on the bed, L starts to remove the seeds and stems with nimble, practiced fingers. He doesn’t smoke for recreation, ever; everything he does, in fact, is medicinal. Even so, he likes the sharp, earthy scent of fresh cannabis.

“Are you going to want any of this?” he asks B’s maddeningly watchful eyes.

* * *

 

Lawliet’s sharp eyes shake B out of his reverie, “No. That stuff doesn’t do good things to my head. I’ll stick to the tobacco, thanks. Got enough to deal with as it is.”

Lawliet reaches for the paper like he’s seen so many of his other collaborators do, but with whiter, more familiar fingers. It’s unnatural. B fumbles for his lighter. Lawliet takes it with barely so much as a nod. As the smoke flares at the tip of it, B is again reminded of A, smoke in the wind. She and Lawliet were alike in many ways.

Lawliet turns back to his notes, but B goes for his duffel bag again, digging for the small leather gloves that were A’s favourites. Elegant, easy to wash. A always did have long fingers. He takes them out and studies them, then glances back at Lawliet.

“Do you think these would fit you? Haven’t got a use for them, and they remind me too much of her to want to keep around.” He keeps his voice light, but there’s the weight of memory to his words.

* * *

 

L takes two hits of the joint then sets it aside, all too eager for the fingers of dreaminess to start massaging some of the speed away, but it will take some time yet.

B’s question draws his attention away from his paperwork, and he swivels toward him just enough to see the black leather gloves soft in B’s hand. It’s the second time that B’s brought up the gloves, tried to suggest that L ought to claim them as his own. Innocent words, maybe, but this is B and L feels vaguely toyed with. Tested. But there’s no bite to it and that’s almost worse. B’s been circling L like he’s spun from glass for days, hovering nearby in a cloud of smoke.

As for A, as for the past – L both does and doesn’t want to talk about it. Definitely hates the rival impulses more, and knows exactly how to put the struggle between them to rest.

“I brought them for you, B,” he says into the back of his wrist, swishing the desk chair from side to side a little. “If you don’t want them, then give or throw them away.”

* * *

B flinches backwards as if slapped. He stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray with unnecessary force. The gloves he stuffs in his deepest jacket pocket with shaking hands, “Throwing people away really isn’t my style, _Lawliet_.”

 _But it’s yours, isn’t it?_ This was such a mistake, seeing Lawliet again, this entire case, all of it. B can’t tell if he wants to pack his things and walk out and _scream_ ; or punch Lawliet, his habits, and his complete inability to see _anything_ in his goddamn expressionless face.

_I need some air._

He settles for wrenching open the small upper portion of the expansive window, and flicking the remains of his crushed cigarette out watching it fall twenty stories and flicker out of view.

* * *

 

Lawliet doesn’t know if he was looking for a fight with B, exactly, but the air needs clearing and this has always been one of their go-to methods. That or fucking it out. Often both, the air raging with dual fire.

 _“Throwing people away really isn’t my style,_ Lawliet. _”_

The words are a hiss of barely withheld rage laced with a whiff of regret. When B tosses his cigarette out, L wonders why he bothers with the gesture. A bit of showiness, maybe. He’s sure to just light another.

“But gloves aren’t people.” L’s tone is neutral enough, but he knows he’s treading on delicate, crumbling ground. Symbols are important to B. He spends so much time looking for them in everything, everyone. Literally and figuratively. The gloves will remind him of B and so he doesn’t want them, but L’s not allowed to not want them, and his reasons for not wanting them aren’t the _right_ reasons. Not according to B. And the saddest and funniest part of all is that this isn’t even about A – not really.

L might be getting a headache, after all.

“Just say what you’ve wanted to say, B.” He pinches the joint between his thumb and forefinger, poised to take another hit. “Insinuation is for strangers.”

* * *

It’s the stupid way he holds the joint that does it, has B walking calmly across the room and delivering a cracking punch to Lawliet’s jaw. The chair spins with the force of it, and B shoves it to the floor before Lawliet can make another move, his limbs tangling up in a mess on the floor.

 _God he looks fucking stupid_.

“We might as well be fucking strangers, Lawliet, for as long as it’s been,” The worst part of it is that he _knows, knows_ all too well the way Lawliet offers himself up for catharsis. _Like he thinks he can fucking take anything I can throw at him._

His knuckles throb, and it’s _not_ cathartic in the way it was when he was thirteen and full of fire. It just makes him tired. He strides past Lawliet, who is staring with a kind of wariness. _Alright, if it’s honesty you want, you fucking asked._

“Look, I don’t know who you are anymore, and I wonder if I should fucking keep it that way.” He looks at the way Lawliet tenses, as if for another fight, but throws up his hands, “I’m going to take a shower.”

When he slams the bathroom door behind him, that _almost_ feels cathartic. But not quite enough to spit out the lump in his throat.

* * *

 

As much as his head is spinning from the force of B’s not-entirely-unexpected punch, L’s on his feet right-quick, near sprinting toward the bathroom and banging the door back open only a split second after B slams it shut.

In one smooth move he hooks his arm around B’s neck and swings him to the ground, checking his momentum just enough so that B’s head doesn’t slam into the slick, marble tiles. He pins his legs around B’s abdomen and stares down at him, his left hand tenderly probing the ache at his jaw. B looks tired in the way that L wishes he was.

“I picked those things out for you, B. Went through the storage locker by myself, packed them in a suitcase, chartered a jet across the Atlantic, tracked you down in the middle of Vegas, and covered your ass in a firefight.”

L trails the fingers of his right hand along B’s jawline, squeezes his chin once, hard, then tilts back, his weight settling on B, his head tipping backwards before he releases a long sigh.

“Nothings enough for you. Same as always.” He almost laughs, but just sighs again, instead.

* * *

_“I picked those things out for you, B. Went through the storage locker by myself, packed them in a suitcase, chartered a jet across the Atlantic, tracked you down in the middle of Vegas, and covered your ass in a firefight.”_

Truth and trust as trade, isn’t that a familiar refrain? B wishes he could throw the words back in Lawliet’s face, but the lump in his throat is almost choking him now

_“Nothings enough for you. Same as always.”_

The thought crystallizes in his psyche, _same as always_ , and it shivers through him when L grazes his jawline. He badly wants to cry, but numbness hangs over him like a blanket. _Same as always_.

“You’re right. It won’t be,” the clarity in his voice is so distant B isn’t sure it belongs to him, “You did what you could, but it was a mistake. A weakness in the death of a friend.”

The words hang in the air for a moment too long, “Please get off of me,” he says, his voice breaking just a fraction before he finishes speaking. He can’t look Lawliet in the eye, can’t blink, barely moves.

* * *

 

L rolls off B and comes to his feet, barely looking at the other as he walks to the double sinks and picks up a hand towel. He checks out his jaw in the mirror. Looks fine for now, it’ll bruise later.

“I need ice,” he announces in an undertone, then steps around B, still on the floor and refusing to look at him, and leaves the bathroom.

He throws the hand towel on top of the ice bucket but makes no move to leave in search of an ice machine. Instead, he crouches down next to one of the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows and presses his forehead to the glass, eyes losing their focus to the landscape of the Vegas strip below, laid bare in the harsh desert sunlight.

Once upon a time, L was pretty good at helping B chase away his despair, helping him sort through the images in his head and singling out which were real and which weren’t. But when it’s despair related to _him_ , L, he’s always been at loose ends. Discomfort fills his gut like a type of paralysis. He’s bad at this.

_“I was messed up about you. I don’t want to be anymore.”_

B’s words from a few days ago come back to haunt him, just like he knew they would, like cold fingers scraping at the back of his neck. The greatest mystery he’ll never solve is how to be the L that B wants.

Maybe it really would be better to be nothing to him at all.

The idea brings no real relief to the discomfort that weighs him down like lead. If anything, it grows worse, and he slips his thumb into his mouth, scraping his teeth against the bottom knuckle in a way that he’s always found soothing.

“You’re right,” he says, though he’s not really sure who to, since there’s a possibility B won’t even hear him. “I suppose it may have been a mistake.”

He’ll stick around just long enough to finish the case, then.

* * *

B stays on the floor for a long moment before he tears himself off the cold tile and twists the shower knob to scalding. The hot tears are running down his face as he strips off his clothes with shaking hands. _This is it_.

The flashes of the past few days, even the past day run through his eyes, fevered with the thrill of the chase, step in step together. And then it all goes to hell. B feels gutted, the worst part of it when he looks back, he’s gutted himself. He barely gasps as the shower rains down on him, washing the dirt of the evening to the drain.

 _I can’t let you leave me alone I can’t I can’t I can’t._ The water tapping on his back almost feels like a cool hand now, and when he turns, the memory of a Lawliet much younger flickers in front of his eyes, raising an eyebrow gently.

“ _Tell me what this is about._ ” he says, quiet and sure, “ _Tell me what you see._ ”

“You.” he says, and it fits in the context of the memory, in the context of the present, in the context of the mirage quirking an eyebrow at him.

“ _I don’t see me. Are your eyes playing with you again?_ ” he was always a little too blunt, a little too many edges, but he never treated B with anything other than the firebrand he was.

“I think it’s my mind this time.”

Memory-Lawliet presses a finger to his lips, and then brings it to the edge of B’s, “ _What are you feeling?”_

“I’m tired and afraid. Pain.” He reaches for the memory, starving for a familiar gesture, but his hand passes through, of course. _So much like the real Lawliet._

“ _You’re not alone_.” Lawliet didn’t used to say that often, but this time, the implication is different. The image washes away, and he is alone in the rain of the water again.

 _Not alone_ . He forces images of the past few days through his mind. Adrenaline, skill, carefully dancing around each other, _too close too far._ Strangely, it doesn’t hurt to think about it. The pain is all raw from moments ago. He shuts off the shower and grabs a towel. His clothes are strewn about the room, with his knife and deck of cards poking out of his jacket.

 _You’re not alone._ B swallows the words, pushes a few more tears out of his eyes, then wipes them clean. _There’s a kind of solidarity in pain, isn’t there? Even when it comes from each other?_

He opens the door slowly, silently. Lawliet is staring with his face to the glass, out into the unforgiving light of the city. Words fall from his lips like marbles.

_“You’re right. I suppose it may have been a mistake.”_

_“_ No.” He says it, quiet and sure, from the distance across the room that may well be miles, “I was wrong. I don’t think it was.”

B knows his eyes are red around the edges and Lawliet stares anyways, even now trying to unravel him in a way that just doesn’t quite make sense to B. But it’s there. He’s looking, he hasn’t left yet. _That’s something, isn’t it?_

“I’m sorry.” He drops the word like dead weight in the room. _Have we ever apologized to each other? I’m not sure we have._ He’s standing next to Lawliet now, close enough to see the exhaustion in Lawliet’s eyes and back.

“I keep being afraid that when you go, I won’t remember the ways you stay, the ways we fight together. And maybe that’s true. But I wouldn’t trade this case, you being here, for anything. Not even for this.”

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he turns away, looking becoming too much, “I’ll get some ice.”

* * *

 

When B responds to the words L thought he’d only been muttering to himself, Lawliet realizes that time is starting to play tricks on him, stretching out like taffy in some spots, spinning fast like a quarter in others. He stares at B through vision still blurry from the bright sun outside the window, his expression probably as dumbfounded as it’s ever been.

_“I’m sorry I hit you. I’ll get some ice.”_

And with that B has the ice bucket and is out the door, still clad in nothing but a towel.

L unfolds himself from the floor and arranges himself on the bed that isn’t already rumpled with B’s scent and silhouette. When B comes back with the ice he shakes some of it into the hand towel, bundling the ends together and offering it to L with uncertain hands. His eyes are red-rimmed and faintly swollen, dancing out of L’s reach.

Instead of taking the ice, L grabs B’s wrist and pulls until the cold cloth touches his aching jaw, as if to say _you hit me, so you can ice me._ B lowers himself to the edge of the bed and does just that.

“Sorry,” L says, and not one more word than that, though he chases B’s gaze down and holds it.

* * *

Lawliet’s skin is luminously grey under the white terry cloth that B presses to his face. Years ago, Lawliet would have demanded a shot at him, or simply taken it. This is a different kind of eye for an eye. It’s not quite forgiveness, but it’s not resentment either. He tries to keep his hands from shaking, barely resisting the urge to collapse into Lawliet in a way that would just hurt them both more.

“ _Sorry.”_ He says it in that strange, detached way, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s apologizing for, but the regret cuts to the bone. The way Lawliet’s hands tremor slightly take him back to the delicate gloves, stuffed in his pocket. _What apology did I want from him, anyways?_

“I think–” he starts, then stops because it’s all _too much_ and focusing and Lawliet’s jaw is the only thing he can do. The purple marks are rather beautiful, in their way. He tries again, after a moment, “I think I’m still… tied up in A’s death. That’s all. I’m sorry.”

He repeats the words like a mantra, like they protect him but all it does is intensify the hollowness inside him. But a plan is starting to form in his mind, something like closure. Something like justice.

“I think I’m going to go to St. Petersburg after we’re done here.” there’s an element of making peace that he’s forgotten amidst the firestorm of Lawliet’s return. A quiet justice for the woman, the friend, that he failed, “She spent a lot of time there and I just. I want to know who she was. I owe her that, at least.”

“Keep in touch, anyways,” he says, grazing his fingers along Lawliet’s jaw, “I meant what I said. I’m glad all this happened, no matter what happens.”

_A’s Gloves_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

 

The ice stings at first, but B keeps the pressure on L’s jaw just right and before long the pain turns into a kind of familiar numbness, spreading down his neck and through the rest of his limbs until they feel too heavy to move.

 _Is he saying goodbye now, already?_ L wonders, his fingers squeezing into a pillow, then relaxing, then squeezing again. So B doesn’t just want closure with A, he wants closure with L, too.

Except L isn’t dead. Not yet and not for a while, if B’s numbers are right. They almost always are.

L brushes aside B’s attempts at closure – he can have them later, when this case is actually closed – and grabs hold of B’s wrist again, the one holding the ice to L’s face, but his grip isn’t hard. It’s just there. Hanging on.

“B, if A wanted us to know who she was, don’t you think she would have told us? Shown us?” He swallows and closes his eyes briefly, then glances back up to B for an answer.

* * *

 

Lawliet is so close, fingertips soft at the underside of B’s wrist, and B is so tired. It would be simple just to rest his forehead on Lawliet’s, just stay there until the world crumbled, the way it feels like it’s slipping out from under B. He’s calm now, though he wants nothing more than to grab Lawliet’s other hand and never let go. He’s calm.

“Lawliet, if A was at the point where she wanted to do something like this, I’m pretty sure she was too scared or too desperate to even be able to let us see,” B takes in a shuddering breath, “Her best defences left her defenceless against herself.”

“Everyone needs to be seen, deserves to be known. And I didn’t… I didn’t know she was hiding from that. But I can still honour who she was if I try to.” He glances back at Lawliet, who seems to be stuck in considering a reaction, fingers writhing in the pillow. The morning sunlight makes his eyes look even darker.

“Look, we can talk about this after we get some sleep, okay?” he folds the ice wrap into Lawliet’s hand, but squeezes it tightly first, lets go a beat too late. B is sure he hasn’t kept the starving pain in his chest from showing on his face, but there’s nothing for it. He tries for a watery smile, “We’ve still got a case to wrap up, huh?”

 

 


	7. Chapter 6: May 16 1998

**May 16 1998 [morning]**

Lawliet wakes up well rested, but in a haze of disorientation. The suite is thick with bright sun and the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and L can make out the sound of water running in the bathroom. The clock radio on the bedside table reads that it’s just after nine in the morning.

Just over fourteen hours of sleep. Good.

Not that it had come easy. He was up for hours after B crashed, smoking and soaking in the bathtub until he was nearly neck-deep in the creeping tide of somnolence, B’s words massaging his synapses.

_Everyone needs to be seen, deserves to be known…_

_Her best defences left her defenceless against herself…_

When L had first got word of A’s suicide, he determined that if A wanted her reasons known, she would have communicated them in a note of some kind. B’s offered up a new possibility, though – that A was unable or incapable of communicating her reasons, that perhaps even the very nature of her work put her in such a position.

L can relate to that, just a little.

And A was friends with the world’s greatest detective and his (former) backup. Was she counting on her childhood cohort to unearth the truth that she was unable to speak? Had there been some kind of unimaginable confession in her, waiting to be dredged out?

It’s a romantic thought. It has _B_ written all over it. But B knows these kinds of mysteries better than L does.

So when L finally slipped out of the tub he went straight to pawing through B’s suitcase until he found A’s lipstick caddy, turning each tube of lipstick over and studying the labels for _Red Pony_ , A’s favorite shade. She’d never been without a tube of it, and yet L can’t find it anywhere amongst the row of pinks and corals.

_Where’d your Red Pony go, A?_

He fell asleep with the question galloping around in his brain. No surprise that it’s still there when he wakes up.

B strolls out of the bathroom with a cup of coffee in hand, his eyebrows lifting when he sees that L’s awake.

“Morning.” L scrunches a fist in his eye. “Have you got any more of that?”

* * *

 

B’s nightmares are covered with needle-edges, gasping screams, porcelain-tile gunshots. He knows it’s something like sleep, but after the dreamless rest of the day before, it seems cheap. He certainly doesn’t sleep the way Lawliet does, spends some of those hours pacing and others lying down and seeing if the images flicker away when he closes his eyes.

St. Petersburg will be bleak, he knows. But he’s almost looking forward to it, after the mad decadence of Vegas. A change of pace will be good. The bleakness will match the hollowness in his chest that threatens to turn him inside out.

Still. Life goes on.

At five in the morning he gives up on sleep and begins to plan out the evening ahead. As the sun filters out over their room, it casts his shadow over Lawliet’s sleeping form.

 _There he fucking goes. Looking beautiful again_ . B tries not to let bitterness tug at his smile. _Best enjoy the view while it lasts_. Sleep suits Lawliet in the strangest of ways, his naked body tangled up in the violet sheets. It’s tense and relaxed at once. B wonders how long he usually sleeps, after these forced marathons of the mind. He tries not to think about it too hard.

 _Somewhere around twelve hours_. He gets his answer at nine, just when he’s sipping the first round of coffee.

_“Morning. Have you got any more of that?”_

_“_ Yeah, for sure,” B heads over the the coffee maker, unable to suppress a slight smile. Lawliet looks better. “You still take it with seven sugars, one cream?”

Lawliet nods from across the room, arching his back in the vivid sunlight. B wants to roll his eyes, or pin him to the mattress, or kiss him till the sun sets again. He swallows the urge in a bitter gulp of his mug, passes Lawliet his coffee instead.

“S’good that you’re up. We need to head out– the prep for tonight isn’t going to be easy, and I’m sure you’ve got some calls of your own to make,” he sits on the edge of the bed, passes Lawliet the torn page from his sketchbook, “This is what we’re going for, so we’ll have to do some legwork, but it’ll be worth it to blend in. Should help us get what we’re looking for.”

                                                                                                                                       

 _B’s Character Sketch_ [Do not edit or repost]

* * *

 

L props himself against the numerous pillows along the bed’s headboard, sheets puddled in his lap, and sips at the coffee greedily, wishing it were a mocha but grateful for anything to hydrate his throat. B looks alert and itching to throw himself into things. Probably best for both of them, for now.

“Mm,” L murmurs, putting the coffee aside when B passes him a sketch. He studies the figures, and even though he already knows the answer, he lifts an eyebrow at B and quirks the tiniest of smiles.

“Which of us wears the dress?”

He feels his smile go a little wistful at his mind’s image of B poised in front of the mirror, smoothing A’s lipstick over the curve of his plush mouth.

_A’s Red Pony, where is it?_

_“Which one of us wears the dress?”_

* * *

 

B grins, slipping into a husky, sultry, feminine voice, “That would be me, sweetheart. I know it’s not in your skill set.” He throws back his head and laughs at the bemused expression on Lawliet’s face, “Been using this one for a number of years. Let’s get going.”

They dress in variants of the Tuesday grunge, B wanting to stop by the nail salon later to try and nail the false identifications they would have seen last night. Disguises first, though. First stop is trading up the Crown Vic for a fancier rental, a deep red RX-7 that suits the overcompensating personality to Lawliet’s understated character. It’s nice to drive, in any case. Easy to push last night, or the future to the side when there’s so much to be done.

B is in and out with dark auburn wig from a shop he frequents, considering where best to get a suit fitting. _Now this I have to see on Lawliet_ , he grins as he starts the car and heads out to Milano’s. The crisp, modern-looking shop has rows and rows of jackets of varying color and cut. Lawliet looks somewhere between curious, unamused, and slightly intimidated. B grins and starts grabbing shirt and jacket pairs.

“Alright, try these, they might have to size you out back, but I think these should suit you. They’ll be tighter than what you’re used to. Give them a shot and I’ll go find a tie.” B motions to the dressing-rooms and smirks slightly at how out of his element Lawliet looks.  

* * *

 

The first suit makes Lawliet look like the president of a high school debate team, an earnest shade of navy blue in a classic, double-breasted cut. The next one is boring, black and understated, and while L likes that it isn’t fussy he’s feeling something of a challenge in this whole experience. Like B is probably waiting to see if L will be able to pick out the one that _he_ likes best – the one that will make L look passable, at least, when juxtaposed against whatever silky gown B has in mind for his own ensemble.

The dressing room is distractingly hot.

L flips through the items on the rack and finds a narrow-cut suit made of a lightweight fabric so brushed and soft it almost feels like velvet or flannel. The label says _Yves Saint-Laurent_ , which means nothing to L, but he likes the deep sage color of the suit. He puts the trousers on and pairs the jacket with an ivory shirt, leaving the collar open for whatever tie B scrounges up.

When he comes out from behind the curtains B still isn’t back from his tie-expedition, but the attendant runs over with a tape measure and a wide smile on his face. “That looks great on you, but it’ll look even better with a few adjustments.” He motions L onto a stool and starts to pin the trousers up the inseam. L boggles at the necessity.

“Left or right?”

“Um,” L says, not really sure about the question or the answer. Fortunately, it’s then that B returns with a bundle of ties and other accessories on hand, an amused smile on his face when he hears the attendant repeat the question.

“Left? Right?”

 

B suppresses a snigger as he passes the attendant, “He’s a right.” He gives Lawliet a once-over, the smile softening over his face, “Nice choice. You should wear green more often.”

He passes over a tie that’s a muted alizarin crimson, something to match the red he’ll be wearing later. The attendant nods approvingly, pinning the trousers until the pants are a perfect fit. _Damn if I couldn’t do this more often._

“Mm, we only have time for a temp stitch, but that is nice work,” he admires the curve of Lawliet’s ass, if just to watch him squirm a bit.

“We can get it done in half an hour, if it’s a temporary.”

“Yeah, that’ll do. This good with you?” he asks Lawliet, who nods mutely, with a bit of a shrug, “We’ll be back to pick it up in a half-hour then. Got a few more errands to run.”

B doesn’t have a ton of familiarity with the bridal shops in this particular town, but he knows what he’s looking for, knows the size and cut as intimately as he would his weapons. Lawliet raises an eyebrow when he heads straight to the cash with the floor-length crimson gown, without even glancing at the dressing room. but B just grins back, “Trust me.” The cut is close to identical to his sketch, but with luminous fabric and open shoulders. _I can work with that._

Lawliet snatches the dress before he gets there and pays for it without a word. As they walk out, B runs his fingers over the fine fabric, “Getting into character as my sugar daddy already, huh?”

Lawliet smirks, but doesn’t comment. _Back to business then, I suppose_ , “We’ll grab yours after one more stop– we want hard evidence for the fake IDs, yeah? There’s a girl at the salon, Phuong was her name. She’s sharp, and I think she’ll talk if you ask her nicely.”

B starts up the car and pulls out towards the Chambers strip, “I’ll distract the owner at the front, you go around back to see if you can chat with her. Sound good? With all this, we might have enough to nail Chambers and Fredericks without the need for all this. Although I still think we’ll need dirt on the so-called Arcadia Foundation.”

* * *

 

They park at the far end of the strip mall so that L can round the back of the building at a sprint, counting doors until he finds the rear entrance to the salon. It’s locked but L picks it easily, sliding into a back room filled with stock, cleaning supplies, and a tiny kitchen area. He doesn’t poke his head into the salon’s main area until he hears B’s braying voice announce itself, and only then it’s to open the door a crack and scan the area as best he can while still keeping cover.

Two salon workers are near the front, giving manicures to a pair of retirees, and the one L remembers as Phuong is scrubbing out the pedicure bowls, clad in rubber gloves with her hair tied away from her face.

L dares to lean out the door a little further, B’s voice still assuring him that he’s got hold of the manager’s ear, and he knocks a pair of cuticle scissors off the nearby counter. It lands to the floor with a light clatter that makes Phuong crane her head around. When she spots L, face half-shielded by the door, her eyes widen.

He beckons to her, opening the door a little wider until recognition ripples over her features. She peels off her gloves and heads for the supply room with a quick glance at the manager’s turned back.

It takes him a few minutes to convince her of anything. She’s guarded, wants him to know that if he fouls things up, she’s probably as good as dead. _“Don’t just leave it at your cousin,”_ she says in a sharp whisper. _“It has to stop, okay? All of it. Otherwise I’m done for, and so is everyone else.”_

He gives her as many nods of assurance as he can muster, a little in awe of what it feels like to go without the special fawning and courting that he usually receives from outfits like the FBI. To Phuong, though, he’s just another man who might be out to fool and exploit her.

 _“Do you even have a cousin?”_ she asks suddenly, and L can see why B described her as sharp.

 _“No.”_ Too sharp.

She withdraws her hand, the documents protectively clutched in her fingers. _“Then why would you do this?”_

_“Because it’s what I do. I’ve caught people like them before.”_

His eyes drift toward the door, to where he can still hear B and the manager talking. Arguing, from the sounds of it. He’s still got his sense of timing, then. Good. L looks back to Phuong, whose eyes are still skeptical, but more than a little shiny. She wants to have hope.

_“How?”_

_“I let them take me,”_ he says, _“like bait.”_ Lets the hollowness in his voice tell the rest.

She blinks, takes a moment to process, then presses the documents into his hand.

_“Go.”_

* * *

 

Lawliet is waiting in the car properly when B exits, eyes shaded. He waves the stack of documents but doesn’t say much. The documents are visas, the nine-digit numbers spinning memories of the photographed passenger list. _It’ll be easy to track them down– all of them– once we take down the entire operation_.

“This is good, yeah. It’s just like the passenger list. She’s sharp, huh? Did she say anything about anyone else?” Lawliet nods his approval, but shakes his head at the second question. B bites his lip till it draws blood, but doesn’t push. He starts the car instead.

Lawliet stays silent when B goes to fetch his suit. The bruise on his jaw is starting to look livid. Or perhaps B is simply noticing it now, as he cruises back to the hotel. He drives a little too quickly, a little too recklessly, trying to leave the tension behind in the accelerator. _Just one more night_.

“I’ll go as Bedelia for the night, I think. Any attachments to a particular name?”

* * *

 

They banter about aliases, with B suggesting ‘Lazlo’ and ‘Lawrence,’ first, then finally settling on ‘Leon’ when they’re in the _Mirage_ ’s elevator and headed back to their suite. They never did learn to pick out aliases that began with anything other than _L_ or _B_.

About 80 percent of the time, having a body is decidedly inconvenient for Lawliet, and while he understands the cultural and societal reasons for adorning the body with special clothes or decoration, it’s never been a particular urge of his own. Less is more, as far as he’s concerned. As such, by the time they’re back in the suite, L’s busting to get back into something more comfortable, dropping his purchases and then shedding his street clothes one by one, leaving them scattered on the floor in a trail before wrapping himself in a robe.

“I’m not putting that suit on until the last possible moment,” he warns B, who doesn’t look particularly surprised at the declaration.

He sits on the bed and watches, half-intrigued, as B lays out makeup and lotions, puts the wig on a stand, brushing it out, and hangs up the dress to be ironed. B always excelled at persona, and not just the showy ones, either – though they do tend to be the ones he most enjoys. When B removes frothy lingerie, stockings, and a pair of silicone falsies from his suitcase, though, L realizes that this bit of dress-up goes a bit more deep than nicking A’s mini-skirts.

“What Sugar Daddy bought you those?” L asks, not at all seriously. It’s already occurred to him that B’s up-close-and-personal way of conducting investigation has certainly included flirting and fucking others for information, for evidence, for other things. As a woman, though? A disguise can only go so far, probably not all the way to the bedroom, but L is curious to discover what the finished production of “Bedelia” will be.

* * *

 

The production and precision of becoming ‘Bedelia’ is calming to B. These characters are just as much an asset as they can be an escape to him– a chance to step outside of B for a moment, be someone different. It’s nice, for a time, but he never lets it go too far.

 _Might need that distance tonight, though_.

He fingers the stockings gently and smiles wistfully at Lawliet’s question. Lawliet’s intuition is inline as always, but B doesn’t detect any jealousy lying underneath the curiousity. He chooses to take the question at face value, “He called himself Marcus. Not sure if that was his real name. Still not sure if he wanted the dress or what was underneath. Maybe both.”

 _He was kind about it though._ A rare bright point in a lot of dirty, ugly fucks that culminated in pillow talk interrogations and listening to sleeping whispers. All part of the job. B takes his time stripping down in the bathroom, shaving every inch of himself smooth, arranging the lingerie so that it’s close to perfect curvature, even without the dress covering the false chest. Once the pale pink lace is adequately arranged B shakes open his makeup case and starts on the face, softening his jaw, putting soft vamp on his eyes. When he gets to the lips an idea occurs to him.

He strides outside in half of his battle regalia and rustles through to find A’s lipstick caddy. _Red Pony, wasn’t that her favourite shade?_ He checks them one by one, but it’s nowhere to be found. He bites his lip and grabs the deeper shade of _Crimson Desire_ instead. When he turns, Lawliet’s eyes are fixed on him, on the new shapes of his body and the bright edges of his face.

 _Look, but don’t touch_. B thinks with a hint of bitterness. It’s what he would have told the people he normally wore this for, in any case. The light catches the side of Lawliet’s jaw, sending a pang of regret ripping through B.

“Here, let me cover that bruise up for you,” B rushes to the bathroom and returns with the foundation, keeping his fingers gentle. Trying not to bring in too many reminders. Lawliet’s eyes are fire and ice at once, and it’s difficult not to look away. He tries for conversation, “Have you seen A’s lipstick? The bright one that she liked, it’s missing from the set.”

* * *

 

L doesn’t really bother averting his eyes as B dips in front of him dressed in women’s lingerie, sponging makeup onto his bruised jaw, which still stings even though L can tell that B is trying to be careful. L’s primary thought is focused on how uncomfortable the whole ensemble looks, all tight straps and straining lace. His secondary thought is to wonder what B would look like out of the lingerie, especially after a few hours. The map of faint jagged red lines criss-crossing B’s pale skin, and L’s fingers tracing them back together.

He bites back a wry smile. That would be an easy fix. One that would probably only lead to more cracks.

_“Have you seen A’s lipstick? The bright one that she liked, it’s missing from the set.”_

Adjusting himself slightly, L’s eyes fall on the lipstick caddy.

“Yeah, _Red Pony._ She always had more than one tube of it. I think it was already missing from the caddy when I picked it up.”

He flexes his fingers against his thighs, hoping that bringing up A won’t lead to a conversation as volatile as their last one.

* * *

 

B’s fingers falter with the powder when L speaks. _Red Pony. Didn’t think he’d remember something like that_. “Yeah, it’s…not like her, really. Unless she really thought she’d need that shade, where she was going.”

He hears the irony, the bitterness in his own voice a moment later. The purple at Lawliet’s jaw is fading slowly under his touch. He stares at Lawliet’s mouth, thinking of A’s thin-lipped smile, “It was one of her favourite parts about dressing up, I think. She wasn’t much for the eyes, but liked the lips. Was good at saying things with her lips too; without words. She was one of the best at that.”

B pulls back to admire his work, thinking about all the times he and A taught each other how to reshape their faces, “I’m going to miss her like hell. But it’s not like I didn’t see it coming.” his lips twist, “In a sense.”

B leaves Lawliet on the bed before he says much more, not wanting to shatter the barely-there comfort between them. In the bathroom the looming possibility of St Petersburg creeps up on him again and the breath catches in his throat. _Slow down_. He takes several shuddering breaths, tightens his grip on the countertop, then presses the wig overtop of his pinned-up hair.

 _Smile, Bedelia_. His red lips turn up in the mirror.

_B as Bedelia_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

 

_The Bellagio_ [do not edit or repost]

* * *

 

They leave for the Bellagio just before seven, dressed in their finery. B practically glows in crimson, lips painted to match, and L supposes that his own outer self looks better than he has in a while. The suit is a good fit, and B has straightened out L’s hair so that it hits along his jawline at what he supposes are stylishly choppy angles.

They certainly catch more than a few admiring looks as they make their way through the lobby of the Mirage, anyway.

L takes the wheel of their car this time, driving the short distance down the strip as they iron out their character’s backgrounds. B confidently describes ‘Bedelia’ as a European basketball player/sports model on the off-season, a persona so suitable and specific that L half-wonders if it isn’t based on a real-life person.

He thinks for a moment as they idle in traffic, quietly taking on the challenge of creating ‘Bedelia’s’ off-season boyfriend. “Leon, Greek shipping heir,” he begins, trying to visualize himself in the role. “Quiet but peculiar genius.” A slide of the eyes to B, who’s wearing a smirk that say _what else what he be?_ “He’s on a gambling holiday with his summer fling, Bedelia, but it’s really an excuse to shop for miracles. He’s very close to his yia-yia, you see, and her liver’s begun to fail in her advancing years.”

Pulling into the Bellagio’s line for the valet station, he looks to B for his final approval. “Does that suit Bedelia, then?”

* * *

 

“Suits me just fine, _me amo_ ,” B keeps the smile on his face in character, letting just a hint of an accent slip into Bedelia’s voice. _Impressive. I guess he’s learned more than a few things from me and A._

At the ballroom door, an attendant takes their ticket without a second glance. _Must speak to how well-kept these tickets really are_. The attendant opens the heavy oak doors to a shimmering display of power, wealth, and beauty. The room evokes the Neoclassical and the Romantic at once, bright chandeliers, red curtains at the front where an aged, blond-haired crooner is center stage, the slightest of rasps in his voice.

The dance floor is alive with stunningly dressed men and woman are dancing in time, being wealthy enough for the need to keep up these kind of appearances, and not drunk enough to make a mess of it just yet. He and Lawliet step together, keeping an eye and smiling brightly at the people they pass. People smile back. _They’re all in disguises tonight, aren’t they?_

B takes a champagne glass from one of the waitresses who offer, and feigns drinking it, watching Athens on the stage.

_I wonder if he’ll play ‘Starlight Serenade’._

From the corner of his eye, B catches Alistair Chambers and a woman who must be his wife, looking rather red-faced and disgruntled. The Fredericks brothers are nowhere to be seen, but the crowd is rather thick. He sets down his drink, turns to Lawliet with a casual air, “Shall we dance, Leon?”

* * *

 

Beyond and L don’t hold hands or link arms in some obligatory fashion, but instead stand with the hovering closeness of new lovers. It’s a practicality that will allow for whispers, yet feels so natural that when B asks if they should dance, L runs a careless pair of fingers down the side of his arm, almost like a pawing cat. Not seductive, but probably intimate.

“Let’s,” he says, curling their hands together and stepping out onto the half-filled dance floor. Danny Athens is singing an up-tempo version of “My Funny Valentine,” pink and gold spotlights swirling around to the beat.

B was always a good dancer, and has become even better in the years they’ve been apart. L isn’t at all surprised – a big feature of B’s skill-set was a physical body more or less prepared for any situation it might find itself in. But even L remembers his lessons from so long ago, and can still lead a simple one-step, two-step, or fox-trot with relative ease.

Even while dancing, L can glimpse how Chambers has chased down a glass of champagne and is doing his best to ignore what looks like some stern words from his wife. She’s a quite a bit younger than him, maybe even a special order from Russia, herself, and she’s not the only trophy doll in the room. Even so, Leon and Bedelia look like the youngest couple of all, and it’s earning them more than a few looks – even what appears to be an appreciative one from Danny Athens himself, glimmering onstage in his lavender suit.

“Seems all eyes are on us,” L remarks to B with a lift of his eyebrows.

* * *

 

The casual intimacy of Leon and Bedelia sends a shock of warmth to B’s stomach. _It’s all for the stage_ , he reminds himself, but that doesn’t stop his pulse picking up when Lawliet sweeps him into a gentle foxtrot. He smiles, as Bedelia would. _Hell of a last night._

 _“Seems all eyes are on us.”_ Lawliet’s smile is quiet and knowing. _Of course they are, or perhaps they’re on you._ The sage suit is sublime on him.

“Mhm. Bugs in your jacket, and you’ve got police to take em in when we get what we need, _me amo_ ?” he chuckles darkly in Lawliet’s ear and is spun rather aggressively for his trouble. He catches Alistair Chambers in the corner of his eye, and nearly does a double take. _His death date is tonight._

 _“_ Expect trouble,” he whispers in Leon’s ear, who has the grace and good sense to fake a shy giggle, “Charlie Brown’s number is up tonight. We need to be careful.”

Lawliet tightens his grip on B’s back and nods. The song ends, and Athens strides off the stage, straight towards them. _Shit. Are we attracting that much attention already?_

“Well, well. I haven’t seen such fresh faces in a while,” Athens gives ‘Bedelia’ what can only be described as a covetous once-over. B almost clenches a fist when he gives Lawliet the same treatment. _So it’s that kind of attention,_ “What brings such beautiful young people to this celebration?”

B hesitates a moment before he falls easily into Bedelia’s delicate naivete, “There were whispers in Milan that there might be someone to help Leon out. He’s so worried about his _nonna._ And the Arcadia Foundation has provided so much for so many people.”

“Oh my stars, yes. I’m honoured to be serving them,” Athens grins lecherously, and despite his better instincts, B inclines his head and nibbles his lip in a gentle imploring way. Athens laps it up, “I have to manage the auction now, my fawns, but shall we speak afterwards? Perhaps my private room out back?”

“That would be wonderful, _grazie,_ thank you so much,” Bedelia gives Leon a starry-eyed glance, who smiles obligingly back. Their eyes tell a different story, however.

Athens strides back up and grabs the microphone with a flourish, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to introduce the auction portion of the night! In service of the truly transformational work that the Arcadia Foundation provides, I will be auctioning off my own limited edition merchandise from the era you know and love me from,” He grins winningly amidst rapturous applause. The patrons remove notebooks, looking anxious. _Tension is awful thick for a merchandise auction._

* * *

 

L swipes a notebook from one of the catering wait staff, who are now circling the ballroom with trays of them, and trains his eyes back up on the stage. Danny Athens has rolled out only three items for the silent auction: a rare first-pressing of his debut LP on 10″ vinyl; one of his signature gold pinky rings embossed with the letter _A;_ and the shimmering, powdery-blue suit he wore at his 1980 Madison Square Garden concert. The other gala attendees whisper fiercely amongst themselves, pens poised in hand, as if their very lives depend on getting a piece of Danny Athens. And perhaps it does.

 _Interesting way to secure a down-payment._ And only three items to bid on in a silent auction where the patrons are left to guess at what numbers others are offering up. Athens looms over the proceedings with a look of absolute relish stretched across his unnaturally-tight face, and L wonders where he stands in this operation. Near the top – even the very top? Meanwhile, L’s lost sight of Chambers.

People are starting to write down their numbers, so L regards the auction notebook and quietly calculates the cost of a liver transplant, gotten the legal way. Upwards of half a million or more. A serious prospect would offer up at least half of that. A winning prospect would offer up even more.

He scribbles in _$300,000_ for the pinky ring, tearing his auction number - 126 - from the bottom of the paper slip, feeling B’s eyes on him. Ten more minutes of soft background music and intense chatter later and the notebooks are rounded back up.

“Thank you, ladies and gentleman!” Athens booms out in his buoyant voice. “Please enjoy the food and cocktails while the results of the auction are decided.”

He disappears backstage and the band picks up with a set of instrumental Athens’ tunes. Some people start dancing again, but most are looking to refresh their champagne.

L presses a hand to the small of B’s back, his touch light. “Feeling lucky,  _glykia mou_?”

* * *

 

B watches Lawliet scribble down a generous amount, slipping the notebook to one of the attendants with a staged nervous energy. Lawliet slips a hand down his back theatrically, _“Feeling lucky, glykia mou?”_

He drops a kiss on Lawliet’s cheek, “I hope so.” As the murmurs of the evening start to grow louder, the results of the auction are projected on to the stage. Leon’s bid for the ring is solid, eliciting more than a few murmurs. The other bids are nothing to sneeze at either, the second highest being a generous quarter-mil. A few of the audience members exit rapidly at their loss, some of them in tears.

 _Bet none of them think twice about the bodies these parts are coming from_.

“Well, well, congratulations, you two,” Athens struts over to them with a covetous grin, “Your bid was by far the most generous– but there is a wait list, of course.”

“Oh dear,” ‘Bedelia’  leans forward and purses her lips, “We are quite worried about her.”

“I think there might be something we can do to speed up the process,” Athens smiles, “Would you care to come back to my room with me now? We can discuss business there?”

 _So that’s how this exchange is going to go_ . B smiles in a strained manner, _you’re about to get a hell of a lot more than you’re asking for, Athens._ “Lead the way.”

* * *

 

They take the elevator up to the near-top of the hotel, Athens leading them to a set of rooms with a brass plaque that indicates they’re about to enter the _Grandview Lake_ suite, which turns out to be more or less a small apartment. The living room is a semi-circle that offers a memorable view of the strip, with floor-to-ceiling window and a small balcony on either side. The decor is gold and red, just understated enough to avoid being gaudy.

The same can’t be said for Athens himself, who talks a mile a minute as he finds a bottle of champagne and starts filling up flutes, smiling at them with his too-perfect dentures.

“My darlings you may not realize it, but I’m quite a bit older than I look,” he says with a modest flourish. “But one never tires of surrounding themselves with beautiful things, particularly young beautiful things…even if it’s just to gaze upon them in admiration.” He passes one flute to B, then the other to L. “Please! Make yourself at home and get comfortable.”

“Being on holiday is a good time to make new friends,” ‘Leon’ says, raising his champagne while B arranges himself on the sofa. “But my yia-yia – pardon me, grandmother, there may be no more holidays for her…” he trails off pointedly.

“Yes, poor yia-yia,” Athens laments, but it’s followed with a smile and a hard glittering look in his eyes. He may seem dotty and charmingly eccentric, but he’s also a man who is undoubtedly used to getting what he wants. “I can move your grandmother to the top of the waiting list if you and your young lady friend agree to spend the evening here with me, and perform to my satisfaction.”

L gives B a silent look that lasts only a beat. He wants Athens to know that ‘Leon’ is serious. “We agree,” he says with a nod. “But would like to be moved up the list first. Tonight, if you please.”

Athens balks a little, but it’s followed by a warm laugh, his heavily-ringed hand settling on L’s shoulder and stroking it just a little. “Of course, my dear. It will only take a phone call.”

* * *

 

B takes the champagne from Athens with a demure sip, trying to scheme how they might make an elegant exit. _Blowing cover might be dangerous at this stage, but as soon as we get what we want, we’ve got to get out of this._ A sick, nervous feeling is starting to gather in his stomach as Lawliet speaks animatedly. Lawliet doesn’t so much get into character as he gets into _cases_.

_And there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to see one through._

_“I can move your grandmother to the top of the waiting list if you and your young lady friend agree to spend the evening here with me, and perform to my satisfaction.”_

_I think not,_ B feigns shock on his face, prepared to buy them more time for Lawliet to get enough circumstantial evidence to call in the troops, but Lawliet is already turning to him. Looking at him, without seeing at all. The only thing in his dark sights is the end of the case, decisive evidence. Go for the win, see it through. Don’t think about the costs.

“ _We agree.”_ B’s breath catches in a knot. _All these years and you still can’t count your costs?_ Athens’ hand is covetous on Lawliet’s shoulder, and B wants to cut his watery, old, lecherous eyes out right now for putting them in this position. When he leaves the room to the next door office, Lawliet is off the couch in an instant, ear pressed to the door.

“Freddi! This is Danny! I need a favour!” Athens’ bombastic voice is easily audible through the door, “Yeah, I got a pair of sweethearts looking for a liver– oh, sorry my man, I mean ‘a package’.”

“Leon, _L_.” B whispers in Bedelia’s voice next to Lawliet, but he’s still gone on the moment, calculating exactly what to make Athens say. And maybe they’d catch him harder, catch him faster this time

“I’m not fucking you in front of him, Lawliet,” B hisses, dropping the character voice for a moment, “Not for the case. This is a fucking line that we can’t cross, and certainly not now."

“So you can get us the goods?” Athens says, just Lawliet turns to him, as if waking from a dream.

“I’ll buy us some time, but we’re getting _out_.” B hisses, trying to get Lawliet to stand.

Lawliet looks genuinely confused, for a moment– but B doesn’t have time to dwell on it since Athens call is just about up. He grabs Lawliet’s wrist and drags him back to the couch with one hand, forcing his eyes wide and jamming a fingernail into the corner of his eyes.

“You’re one in a million, Freddi. Thanks for this!” When Athens strides back into the room, grinning from ear-to-ear, B closes his stinging eyes and lets out a deep sob.

“I’m sorry, Leon. I just can’t do this!” Bedelia bursts into tears when Athens lays eyes on her, “I want to save her, but I just can’t! I’m sorry!”

* * *

 

Athens looks flustered at the sight of Bedelia’s sudden outburst, and even though L doesn’t quite understand why B is drawing a line _now_ , of all times, when they’re so fucking close, he manages to keep his expression set to ‘dumb surprise.’ He keeps it there even as B lets out a loud sniffle and sweeps through the french doors onto the balcony, the fabric of the crimson gown fluttering behind him.

“I’m sorry,” L says to Athens. “Just give me a moment to reassure her.”

The Vegas night is warm and thick with light pollution, making it impossible to miss the tense, strained expression on B’s face. L starts to speak, then notices that there’s a second door on the balcony, leading to a bedroom. He lifts a finger at B, _one momen_ t, and slips inside, knowing that the bright lights inside the suite will make their movements out on the dark balcony hard to see Picking up the phone on the bedside table, he dials a number he knows by heart, and when a tone sounds, punches in another set of numbers. “Bellagio Ballroom and Grandview Lake suite,” he says in a low voice, then hangs the phone back up.

Back out on the balcony within seconds, he sweeps B into an embrace and whispers gentle words into his ear: “The authorities are on their way.”

Of course, there’s no telling how long it will take for them to get here; nobody’s life is in immediate danger, though one wouldn’t know it from the look on B’s face.

“It will be all right, love” L says, taking B by the shoulders, and speaking in his normal tone of voice in case Athens can hear them. “There’s no reason we can’t do this –” _If we have to_ , he mentally supplies, because it’s not like he actually _wants_ Danny Athens to watch him have sex with anyone, let alone B “– It will just be you and me, after all.” He strokes his finger along B’s collarbone, but he isn’t smiling, his face communicating all the confusion he feels. B has done this sort of thing before. Why is he pulling on the reigns now?

“Like always,” he adds, the pads of his fingers coming to rest on B’s pulse, more rapid-fire than he expected. He withdraws his hand and presses a thumb to his lips, still staring intently. “Are you worried about your…” he trails off and gives a pointed look in the direction of B’s crotch, “dress?”

* * *

 

“ _Like always,”_ B shakes his head, trying not to let those words cut too deeply. _Like hell. This is the last I’ll see of you for god knows how long._

_And I’m not letting it be like this._

_“Are you worried about your…” he trails off and gives a pointed look in the direction of B’s crotch, “dress?”_ B would almost laugh if it wasn’t so serious. God knows Athens would probably be tickled pink by what’s under his dress, the fucker. He locks eyes with Lawliet, who still has confusion written in his eyebrows, adrenaline for the win dilating his pupils.

“You don’t understand, _me amo_ ,” B keeps his voice gentle and feminine, willing Lawliet to understand. _Get your head out of the case, think about what this will do to us._ “If we do this, that’s all I’ll remember you by. It’s not just this moment.”

 _It’s all that comes after it_.

B pulls away from Lawliet’s touch, trying to think of ways to escape the situation. They can probably only stall for ten minutes or more, if they stage it right. _Could we knock him out?_ Worrying for both of their identities. It’s too close to the end for that. They’ll be remembered, and that L cannot do.

“Athens! Open up!” a sharp banging on the door outside causes the two of them freeze, “It’s Alistair! Are those two young kids with you?”

_They know._

B fingers his knife out of his corset, wishing he had packed a handgun instead, and prepares for a fight. _I didn’t want this to get messy, but._ “If they come in, stay hidden. Your identity is more important than mine, and I’m in a better disguise.”

* * *

 

L barely has a moment to soak up the weight and insinuation in B’s words before he hears Chambers pounding down on the suite doors. B is crouched down defensively, knife in hand, but L knows that Chambers is probably packing heat and they don’t have any to fight back with. He pulls B in by the wrist, away from the door that leads to the living room, and nods at the other door that opens into the bedroom. _We can give them the slip_ , he signals. The bedroom should open up into the hallway and suite’s exit – if they can time it so that Chambers enters the living room just as they exit the bedroom, they should be able to make a run for it.

He waits until he hears Chambers voice advancing further into the suite before he opens the balcony door and sneaks into the bedroom, low and fast, B right at his heels.

“They’re having a moment on the balcony,” he hears Athens say, a pouty tremor in his voice. “Why? What do you want with them?” He sounds like a child who’s worried he’s about to have a new toy taken away.

“My invitation was stolen the other night,” Chambers spits out. “Security fingered them as the ones who came in with it.”

“But – Ally!” Athens sounds panicked, and L figures that’s as good a sign as any that Chambers is headed for the balcony. He clenches his muscles, preparing himself to run, and reaches for bedroom door-knob.

And then gunshots crack through the air and he ducks instinctively, feeling B at his back doing the same.

“Stop, no!” Athens wails, pleading with someone. “I have nothing to do with anything! I’m just a singer!”

L and B share a fraught look barbed with questions. Then, bracing himself, L opens the bedroom door and peers down the hallway into the living room. A man wearing one of the caterer’s uniforms has his back to them, a handgun still shaking in his outstretched hand. A few feet in front of him, Chambers is sprawled out on the rug, his blood blending in with the vivid floral pattern.

* * *

 

The caterer is Vietnamese, his eyes afire with pain and anger. He has the gun trained at Athens, but turns it over to B and Lawliet the moment he sees them.

“Don’t shoot!” Athens yells. _Shut the fuck up._ B thinks, and takes a slow step forward, eyes on the man in front of him. His death date isn’t tonight. Good.

_Here’s hoping mine isn’t either._

“ _Hey. Just relax. You got him_ ,” B manages in a feminine-sounding Vietnamese, though he has to drop the accent. He takes a step forwards, still keeping eye contact with the man. He’s desperate with revenge, but terrified of what he’s done.

“Yes, just stay calm!” Athen’s voice is shrill, and the man flinches back to Athens, then back to B.

“ _He, he–”_ the man starts, looking at Chambers’ corpse with revenge in his grip.

 _“I know what he did. He deserved what you gave him,”_ B takes another step forward. The man’s hands start to shake,“ _Drop the gun.”_

The man lowers it to the floor, a sob ripping from his throat.“ _He was my brother. He was my brother and they cut him up like_ meat _._ ”

“Oh god, thank you, thank you–” Athens stutters when the gun hits the floor, and B strides over and kicks him in the teeth. The way his head hits the wall is ringingly satisfying. The caterer is still on his knees, casting frightened glances back to the corpse.

“ _I’m sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner_ ,” B is finding it difficult to stay in Bedelia’s voice, “ _Listen_.”

He inclines his ear to the west, and smiles at Lawliet as he does so. The shouts from the ballroom are just starting to become audible, the sirens from the window high and clear in the evening air, “ _It’s over now.”_

 

* * *

It takes over an hour for the ruckus to die down.

In the middle of it all, L and B manage to slip into a room with a balcony-view of the ballroom, neither of them saying much as they watch the well-heeled ‘organ tourists’ be taken away for questioning, one by one. These days, when the nearest FBI field office gets word from L that it’s time for a raid, they act without question. He always brings the evidence needed to close the case.

As for the man who shot Chambers, his name turns out to be Trang. L thinks he can secure him immunity, though it will naturally come at a cost. L can make use of someone with that kind of nerve, and maybe Phuong, too. Someday.

Soon the ballroom is nearly empty of people, though someone’s left the sound-system playing. More Danny Athens tunes, playing just loud enough to reach their ears. An awkward choice, given that Athens was taken away handcuffed to a stretcher and bleeding profusely from the mouth.

“That was a satisfactory conclusion,” L says, pulling at his tie. Now that he doesn’t have to be ‘Leon,’ the suit feels more stifling and uncomfortable that ever. B nods without word, appearing mostly unruffled – externally, anyway.

_“That’s all I’ll remember you by.”_

He remembers B’s words from earlier – spoken in Bedelia’s voice, maybe, but L knows that they were really meant for him, from B himself. And only now, when it hits him just how rather relieved he is that they didn’t have to put on an intimate performance for Athens, does he realize what B was trying to tell him.

Being relieved now, after the fact, doesn’t mean that he would have regretted it. As long as a case can be closed, there’s never anything _to_ regret.

But some doors close cleaner than others.

“B,” he slouches against the hotel’s stone exterior. It still feels warm from the day’s earlier heat. “Thanks. For the check.”

* * *

 

There’s a rare gentleness to Lawliet’s words. B strips the tie off of him with ease, without a second thought. His voice is a little rusty from disuse, Bedelia fading away with his lipstick, “Don’t mention it. That went well, didn’t it? All’s well that ends well.”

_Let’s not break things by talking about it._

A familiar riff sounds on the piano from the speakers. _Well, damn if the timing isn’t perfect_ . B smiles against the starlight, trying to tuck this moment into his breast pocket. There’s something so rare and clean about it, that feels not like five years, but almost six years before. _We were so young, then. Me, L, and A. The three of us against the world_.

“A dance?”

 _Maybe we’re still fighting the world, in our way. But let’s take a moment._ Lawliet inclines his head and takes the lead in a slow, almost waltzlike step. The moon has long since set in the sky, and B breathes in the dirt-sweetness of Lawliet’s hair. He tucks that into the memory banks too, for all the rainy, sticky summers of St. Petersburg.

“You know she set me on this case, too,” he lets a smile play on his lips, “Think she had the idea in Columbia. But she said it was well-suited to me. It was just in passing, but. It was a nice gift. She wasn’t usually generous about that sort of thing.”

 _Another of the signs I missed_ . The smile flies off his face, but he inclines his head towards Lawliet in any case. _They’ll be plenty of time to think on those later_.

For now, there’s the boy he grew up with, best partner he’s every known, and the person, B is willing to admit before it stings too deeply, that he’ll never stop feeling _something_ for. Feeling _everything_ for.

_Five years couldn’t teach me, so I guess that’s that._

_I’ll miss you._ B says without words, but lets Lawliet spin him under starlight, red dress winking in the slowing dawning light. When he spins backwards he clutches a little too tightly at the back of Lawliet’s shoulder blades, forcing a slight smile. _It’s alright. I’m fine._

* * *

 

B should have more weight and substance than L, but when he twirls back to latch their hands together, B feels like no more than vapor, his gaze already retreating, looking beyond to whatever waits for him this time. Some future without L or A, in person or in spirit.

 _Yes._ L thinks. _That’s good._

This is what needs to happen.

Except there’s a feeling like a claw digging into the middle of his chest, and it’s like that claw has snagged on something vital and is unraveling it out and out into heaps at his feet, and he can’t name what the something at his feet is but it feels _wrong_. He needs to shovel it back in.

“I think,” he begins, but no other words seem to come. What does he think, anyway? I slowly squeezes B’s hand as if it might have the answer.

_Not yet._

He makes a small noise that sounds nonsensical even to his own ears, and takes a few stumbling steps forward until his chin is slumped against B’s shoulders, their hands still clasped together, arms dangling at their sides.

“M’here,” he mutters. “Okay?”

* * *

 

Lawliet’s dancing grows more gentle, stops, his body a train-wreck in slow motion as it folds into B’s. The noise he makes slightly before– it’s a strange pain, and B knows it well. _Separation. Hurts like hell_. He wraps his arms around Lawliet’s chest, rubs his hand gently through Lawliet’s soft, straightened hair.

_Hurts like hell. But it’s getting better._

Slowly, tentatively, Lawliet’s hands walk up his spine. Then the grip gets tighter around him. _Is this goodbye? Sure as hell doesn’t feel like one_. B can’t help the nervous laugh, the tears that spark out of his eyes.

“ _M’here_ ,” the same words he used so many years ago, whether it was in the wake of a terrifying firefight, or on the floor of B’s room, when all was knives and mirrors and _eyes_ . _I trust you._

“ _Okay?_ ”

“S’okay, Lawliet,” B whisper into his ear, letting Lawliet’s pulse carry them to wherever the world turns to next,  “You can be here s’long as you like.”

* * *

 

                                                                                                                            

 _Fin_ [do not edit or repost]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this first installment of "Black Beats and Low Leads!" It's been a fun, experimental creation, and we look forward to future narratives that will involve more characters (and writers!) from the Death Note universe. Again, if you want to follow the story in real-time, follow L (@lowlawliet) or B (@noirberryjam) on tumblr. L is written by Tartpants, and B is written by Sybilius.
> 
> Questions or thoughts? We'd love them! Though we can't provide any spoilers ;)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lost a Heart in Vegas? (ILLUSTRATED/GRAPHIC NOVEL ONLY)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591251) by [aveari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aveari/pseuds/aveari)




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